


Forged in Flames

by mswhich



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Drama, Dubious Consent, F/M, Legilimency, Romance, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 84,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswhich/pseuds/mswhich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her last year at Hogwarts, preparing for the oncoming War, Hermione and her Potions professor become entangled in a situation that neither thought they wanted...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I ever wrote. I'm finally bringing it over from FF, stripped of most of the original author's notes. (You don't need to know that I was a bit late updating on a particular Thursday!) This fiction goes into some relatively dark places, and there are scenes of torture/violence, so please be warned. 
> 
> The setting is AU; in this version of events, Dumbledore is still alive in their seventh year, everyone is still at Hogwarts, and Voldemort is not yet at full power.
> 
> This work is tagged Rape/Non-con for brief mentions, but the main relationship features dubcon only.
> 
> If you enjoy it, please comment/review, because authors live for that sort of thing.

_Here goes nothing_ , Hermione thought. Classes had ended hours before. The hallway leading to the Potions classroom was empty and deserted. The dungeon walls seemed more dank and sinister than usual, and she tried to ignore the creeping feeling that she was a prisoner on her walk to the execution chamber. _Stop being melodramatic_ , she told herself.   
  
She'd had an idea for a new potion, one that would increase the power and range of certain spells. She'd done the theoretical part of the work on her own, but if she were going to progress any further, she'd need access to Professor Snape's private stores. She also needed his approval for her to work in his laboratory after class hours. She had already prepared herself for the harsh mocking she was sure she'd have to endure from him when she asked for these things. But she could stand his sarcasm, as long as he gave her what she wanted.   
  
She stopped just outside the classroom, pausing to mentally run through her proposal again. She'd checked and rechecked her work so many times that she could recite it from memory. It was a good idea; there was no question of that. If she told the Order about it, they'd certainly be interested. But she wanted to approach Snape first. Tactically she thought this would be better than having Dumbledore simply command Snape to allow her the use of his stores. She felt instinctively that this would not go well.   
  
 _That's an understatement._  
  
She hadn't told anyone of her plans. If Snape rejected her proposal, she wanted time and privacy to regroup. Ron and Harry going on about how this proved the "Great Git" was an evil bastard would not be helpful. She'd tell them if Snape approved it.   
  
Maybe.  
  
She was as ready as she was ever going to be. She took a deep breath and entered through the Potions classroom door.  
  
"Professor Snape?" she called out. The room was empty, the work tables cleared off and the blackboard wiped clean. He wasn't in. He should have been in. Hermione frowned. This was the time of day when he graded papers in the classroom; she'd made sure of that. She sighed audibly, half-hoping this would summon him from some shadowy corner. But it appeared he really was gone.  
  
 _Vexing_.  
  
She considered leaving the papers on his desk, but decided against it; it was too likely that he'd see they were from her and sweep them directly into the bin. Or burn them in the fireplace. The Potions Master had no love lost for his most enthusiastic student, and she well knew it.  
  
Highly vexing. She glanced around the classroom one last time. Empty and deserted.   
  
Snape had a laboratory and office in his private quarters, and with a sinking heart, Hermione realized that is where he must be. Interrupting him in the midst of working in his private lab.  _Brilliant idea, Hermione. That should go really, really well._  But the proposal wasn't going to present itself, and if she put it off she'd just have to do this some other day instead.   
  
No; she'd do it now. She took another deep breath, inhaling the familiar dank scent of the Potions classroom. She'd never been inside Snape's private quarters, but she knew where they were. A few short minutes and she'd be there, and she'd have this over with. She squared her shoulders, and left the deserted room behind her.

-~-~-~

  
Snape was in a foul mood from having had to attend an emergency Order-related meeting in Dumbledore's office, and in his distraction he was almost at his chambers before he saw that his wards were broken. He had his wand out instantly, surveying the hallway around him. No-one. Whoever it was might still be inside.  
  
He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot. As it swung open, he scanned the interior for intruders. There were few places to hide. The great stone room was lined with bookshelves, but otherwise contained only his desk and a few chairs, separated from the hearth by a wide expanse of stone flooring. Snape had designed his quarters to be spare, both because he preferred that aesthetic and for the lack of cover it afforded. Paranoid, yes; but paranoia was why he was still alive.  
  
There was a figure standing in the center of that wide stone expanse. A person.  
  
Snape reflexively cast " _Expelliarmus_!" but nothing happened. The figure remained perfectly motionless, unrecognizable in the darkness. Apparently there was nothing to disarm.  
  
"What is this?" he snarled. With a quick " _Lumos_ " he brightened the room.  
  
He expelled his breath then, and with a grunt of disgust, said, "Granger. Why am I not surprised?"  
  
It  _would_  be her. He wondered if Potter and Weasley were involved in this somehow. He wouldn't be terribly surprised if they were here as well, although a quick glance revealed that Granger was currently the only Petrified student in his private office. He examined her; she was frozen in place, her arms straight down at her sides and her back ramrod straight, staring at him silently. She blinked as he watched; so at least she could do that much. Other than that, she could have been an unusually lifelike statue. This was an odd form of  _Petrificus_ ; Granger was standing upright. Someone must have charmed her to stay that way…or used a form of  _Petrificus_  he hadn't seen before.  
  
Of greater concern was the fact that whoever it was had broken through his wards. It couldn't have been the girl; she wasn't skilled enough for that.  _Or was she_? He considered this, and then dismissed it. No, it had to be someone experienced in the Dark Arts. His wards were complex and difficult even for other staff members here at Hogwarts. It was simply not possible that a student, even a bright student -- his best student; yes, in the privacy of his own thoughts he could admit this -- could have broken through them. Someone else had to have done it. Likely a Death Eater.   
  
So what was Granger doing here? And why in the hell were Death Eaters breaking into his quarters? He felt icy tendrils of fear creep down his spine.  _Have I been found out_? But that made no sense; if Voldemort suspected him, he'd be dead already. And it defied reason that Granger could be involved with rogue Death Eaters in any way.   
  
So logically he had to conclude that the girl had come upon one or more Death Eaters after they'd already broken into his quarters. But why was she in his quarters in the first place? He was increasingly certain that Potter and Weasley had somehow put her up to it. Granger was tedious and annoying, but it was uncharacteristic for her to go sneaking around his private offices after hours.  
  
Well, he could find out what had happened easily enough. He pointed his wand at her. She flinched, barely visible as a tightening around the corners of her eyes, and he allowed himself a small smirk, wondering exactly what she thought he might do.   
  
" _Finite Incantatem_."   
  
Nothing happened. Granger's eyes visibly widened. Snape was rather surprised as well. The failure of  _Finite Incantatem_  indicated complex magic. Any thoughts that this might have been a childish prank were now dismissed; this spell was the work of a Death Eater.  
  
"Miss Granger, can you move?"  
  
Nothing. She only stared, motionless and silent. He thought with some irony about the many times in his classroom he'd wished he could hex the girl into silence.   
  
Again, then: " _Finite Incantatem_!"   
  
She remained still and frozen except for her eyes. And judging by those eyes, she was quite afraid. As well she should be. The spell holding her in place was powerful Dark magic. If he knew exactly what the spell was, he might be able to reverse it, but of course the girl had no way of telling him.  
  
No way of directly telling him, that is.  
  
 _You're a bastard, Snape_ , he thought to himself, but there was really no other way.   
  
He looked directly into her frightened eyes, and said, "This is necessary." She began blinking rapidly, and he almost laughed. She couldn't help protesting and arguing, even now. Admittedly, what he was about to do was somewhat unethical, but he had no real alternative.  _And it's not as though there's anything she can do about it_ , he thought without a trace of guilt.  
  
He looked into her wide brown eyes, tapped his wand to her forehead -- gratifyingly, she flinched -- and said, " _Legilimens_!"


	2. Chapter 2

Snape entered her mind easily, like sliding into water, just as he'd expected. She attempted a faint, weak resistance, but he pushed past it easily. He saw memories of her past few weeks of schooling, her worries about N.E.W.T. exams; all useless and pointless. A lot of pap about the Weasley boy and his unrequited feelings of love toward her. Fears of Voldemort and his minions, fears of -- his mouth curled into a smirk -- himself.   
  
And then, as he approached her memory of that morning, he encountered a powerful, crippling shame and humiliation in her mind. It was like hitting a brick wall. He physically flinched, and nearly broke the Legilimency contact.  
  
 _What in the fuck?_  
  
He regained his composure and sank back into the memory; she left her room in Gryffindor Tower; she made her way to the dungeons, and then…it struck him again, a hot, powerful blast of intense and unbearable shame.   
  
The emotion -- one of the strongest he'd ever felt in someone else's mind -- was divorced from the memories it should have been attached to. Normally a person's memories and emotions were inextricably linked. Looking into someone's mind meant experiencing not just their thoughts, but their feelings as well, all wrapped together. But Granger's memories of that morning were simply gone, leaving only the emotional resonance behind.   
  
He tried following the emotions to their source, like tracing a single thread through a woven tapestry. Difficult, but he was an experienced Legilimens; few were better. This search, though, led him to the same featureless wall. The wall was nothing but a metaphor, the way that Hermione's mind interpreted the reality that some of her memories were inaccessible and hidden. But metaphor or no, it was completely impenetrable. Snape tried every trick, every tactic that he knew, but the wall was impassible. Whatever had happened to Granger in the past few hours, whatever had caused her this unbearable shame and humiliation, he could not reach it, could not see it. At last he withdrew from her mind, frustrated and angry.  
  
"What the  _fuck_?" he breathed, looking directly into her eyes. "What did you do?"  
  
There is no way in hell that a seventh-year Hogwarts student, not even this one, could manage that level of Occlumency. Not possible. Someone had done this to her, built that wall to keep him from seeing into her mind. It had to be the same person that had broken his wards, the same person that had used Dark magic to bind and silence her.   
  
 _What, or who, could you possibly have seen, for them to silence you like this...but leave you here, like a wrapped gift, for me to find? And why are you so ashamed? What did you_  do,  _Granger_?  
  
He needed to find out what Death Eaters had been doing in his quarters, and he needed to find out quickly. And he could hardly get anything done with a Petrified Gryffindor stuck in the middle of his office. He ground his teeth, realizing that he was going to have to ask for help.  
  
Snape watched the girl. She blinked rapidly, her brown eyes bright and shining, and then a tear trickled slowly down her cheek.   
  
 _Pathetic_.  
  
He briefly considered simply leaving her there while he examined his laboratory. The idea had its merits; he had to admit to taking a certain amount of pleasure in the girl's predicament. But, no. A childish satisfaction in causing the insufferable Miss Granger a bit of discomfort was less important than finding out who had been in his quarters practicing Dark Arts, and why.  
  
He stared down his nose at her, seized with the sudden desire to torment her, to punish her for having invaded his privacy. "Odd that your… _friends_  haven't missed you yet, Miss Granger," he said. "Or perhaps they have, and are too stupid to sound an alarm." He paused, as though waiting for her to respond, and then finished, "Yes, that does sound more like them."  
  
He knew he was being cruel, but didn't particularly care. She'd had the temerity to enter his office without permission. This is what she got.  
  
"Or maybe they simply thought you were in the library," he said. "Is that it? You're there often enough, reading your books." He let the corner of his mouth turn up in a sneer. "How much did your  _books_  help you today?"  
  
He heard the tiniest sound from the back of her throat. Very interesting. He wondered what it had cost her to make that sound. Truthfully, if he had to be stuck with Hermione Granger in his quarters, it was preferable that she'd been silenced. He momentarily thought that he'd have to thank whoever had done it to her, but then considered the few likely culprits and decided against. He was not inclined to offer thanks to the Dark Lord's minions, not even for quieting one of his more irritating students.  
  
 _Stay focused, Severus_. It was time to call Dumbledore.  
  


-~-~-  
  
Half an hour later, Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had joined Snape in his private office. The two staff members examined Hermione closely, Dumbledore occasionally waving his wand and murmuring some small incantation, so far to no discernible effect.   
  
"You say you found her exactly like this, Severus?" Minerva McGonagall asked, frowning at the frozen girl.  
  
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yes, Minerva. What,  _exactly_ , are you implying?"  
  
The older woman looked at him in surprise. "Implying?"  
  
"Nothing. Nevermind." He folded his arms and leaned against his desk, watching the proceedings with barely-disguised annoyance. "Shall I call one of the first-years to assist you two?"  
  
"There's no need for sarcasm. This spell is unusual, and quite powerful. It may take some time to figure it out. Although hopefully not much longer." She frowned, and peered into Hermione's eyes. "I don't know if being frozen like this will harm the girl. She has been cursed for at least...would you say two hours, Severus?"  
  
"At least one and no more than eight, and that is all I can tell you."  
  
Dumbledore, who had been tracing a complicated sigil in the air with his wand, stopped, nodding slightly.   
  
"Minerva, I believe I have identified the spell. I'm surprised that Severus did not recognize it as well. It's a variation on  _Petrificus Totalus_. A Dark variation," he finished, with a meaningful look at his Potions professor. Snape fought the sudden urge to adjust the sleeve of his frock-coat to hide the Dark Mark on his arm. It was well-hidden, but Dumbledore often had this effect on him. Even though the old bastard knew damned well that it was there.  
  
"I am unfamiliar with such a variation," he said, keeping his voice even and level.  
  
Dumbledore said, "Yes. Well, not many would be familiar, I suppose.  _Petrificus Silencio_. Freezes the victim just as  _Petrificus Totalus_  does, but silences him -- or her -- completely. Much more importantly, it is impervious to  _Finite Incantatem_ , as we have seen. It is a rarely-used spell. Very difficult to cast, and even more difficult to make last for any length of time. It should wear off on its own soon."  
  
Snape sighed with deliberate exasperation. "Would it not be more appropriate for Pomfrey to look after her in the infirmary? I have things to do."  
  
"As you wish, Severus. We clearly can't leave her alone." Dumbledore pointed his wand at the girl and intoned, " _Mobilicorpus_."  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
With great feeling, Snape said, "Fuck," drawing a gasp from McGonagall.   
  
"Severus!"  
  
"Minerva, trust me when I say that I have  _better things to do_  than to sit here being nursemaid to an over-inquisitive Gryffindor brat for the next several hours."  
  
Dumbledore revealed nothing with his expression except his usual façade of benign geniality. "Well," he said cheerfully, "I doubt it will take that long. Although it's impossible to be sure, of course. Notify us as soon as she's free, won't you? Minerva and I will investigate the problem of how Death Eaters got into the castle in the first place."  
  
He and McGonagall departed, leaving Snape alone again with the Petrified girl.   
  
He rose from where he'd been leaning against his desk, arms still folded, to glare at her. She made no reaction other than to blink, and somehow this irritated him even further. He hissed, "You're probably enjoying this, aren't you? Why is it always you and your obnoxious little brat friends that cause these problems? The only thing worse than having to look at  _you_  here, in my quarters, of all places, would be having to sit here and babysit Weasley, or Merlin forbid,  _Potter_." He spat Harry's name as though it were a curse.  
  
Then, as though flipping a switch, he shifted back into the smooth, controlled Snape she was more familiar with. "I  _will_  find out what you were doing here in my quarters, Granger," he said. "I will find that out, and I will find out what else you did. I know you're ashamed of something. I  _saw_  it." Her eyes opened wide in shock, and his lip curled into a grin.  
  
"Oh, yes. Did you think you had hidden that from me? You will tell…me...everything."  
  
He tapped her chest with his wand as punctuation, and then fixed her with a baleful glare for a long moment before finally retreating to his laboratory, turning his back on her before the tears escaped her eyes, leaving slow tracks down her motionless cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

Two hours later, Snape gave up even the pretense of doing paperwork, pushing a second-year Hufflepuff's essay away from him with a snarl and nearly knocking over his mug of tea. He simply could not concentrate under these circumstances. His anger at the girl for invading his private sanctuary would have been enough all on its own, but he was more than a little worried about what Voldemort's Death Eaters might have been poking around at in his offices. He'd checked his private storeroom thrice and found nothing obviously amiss. He'd done magic-revealing spells meant to show any listening devices that had been left in his quarters. Nothing. There was no evidence left behind, and nothing for him to do except wait.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, studying the girl. This was a rare opportunity; she was usually surrounded by her puling, incompetent friends, or bent over a book or cauldron. It was always surprising to see his students grow and change from babyish first-years into fully-grown adults by the end of their time at Hogwarts, but he felt that this case was more surprising than most. Granger had lost most of her puppy fat, and become almost...willowy, he decided, was the appropriate word. And, he noticed, she had filled out in the right places for a woman. His eyes traveled over the curve of her hips, and her small, firm breasts. When had she grown into that body? No wonder Weasley was constantly drooling over her.   
  
At this, he stopped abruptly.  _You're leering at a student, Severus_. And then,  _Yes, and what's she going to do to stop me?_  
  
He permitted himself a small smile. It amused him to think of humiliating her in this small way. She'd never know, of course. She no doubt assumed that the Great Git was ticking through exam papers. Perhaps working on some potion. Certainly not letting his eyes explore every inch of her body.  
  
 _Well, what she doesn't know won't hurt her_. And it's not as though he actually wanted her. He was merely indulging himself for a moment in a brief and meaningless humiliation.   
  
Her fingers twitched. Snape checked the time. In the hours since Dumbledore and McGonagall had left, she had not moved a single muscle. But there was no mistaking it; her hand had twitched...and now the other one. A moan escaped her lips. The curse was definitely wearing off. He observed with interest as her limbs began to tremble, only slightly at first but then intensifying into what looked like a convulsion. She sank to her knees and sucked in a great, shuddering breath like a drowning woman coming up for air.   
  
"I couldn't breathe," she gasped. "The spell was like someone was sitting on my chest. And every time anyone used magic on me, it got tighter."  
  
Snape lifted an eyebrow. Was that one of the known effects of the  _Silencio_  curse? He made a mental note to check into it later.   
  
But enough of that. They had work to do.  
  
Snape rose from behind his desk, his hooked nose and black robes giving him the impression of a bird of prey. "Miss Granger," he said, with no trace of emotion in his voice, "pull yourself together. I believe you have some answers for me."  
  
Her breathing had returned almost to normal, but she was still on her knees, staring down at the floor.   
  
"I...I don't know, sir."  
  
 _Is she blushing?_  He ground his teeth together and took a deep breath.  _Control, Severus_.  
  
"Miss Granger. There have clearly been Death Eaters in my quarters, and one or more of them has just as clearly cursed you. I want to know the following things, in the following order: what you were doing here, what you saw or heard, and who cursed you. And I want to know  _now_."  
  
She got to her feet slowly, having difficulty making her limbs work after having been frozen for so long. He was within arm's reach and could have helped her. Instead he merely folded his arms and leaned back against his desk, watching her struggle. He waved a hand at the high-backed wooden chair opposite the desk, and Hermione sank into it heavily.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir."   
  
 _For fuck's sake. Bloody Gryffindors_. Through clenched teeth, nearly snarling, he said, " _Miss Granger_. Don't be sorry, just tell me what the  _fuck_  happened in here."  
  
She blanched; what little color was left in her face paled even further. Her eyes darted from side to side. She would not look at him.  
  
"I can't, sir," she said. If he hadn't been looking at her, he wouldn't have recognized it as her voice; it was timid and trembling. Nothing like the know-it-all brashness he was accustomed to. He was seized with the impulse to grab her and shake the information out of her. Who -- or what -- in the hell could possibly have done this to her?  
  
In a deceptively soft voice, he asked her, "What, exactly, do you mean by that, Granger? You can't, or you  _won't_?"  
  
Hermione folded her hands carefully in her lap, still looking anywhere but into his face. Instead she stared at a spot on the wall somewhere beyond him, and said, in a careful, controlled voice, "Professor Snape, believe me, I want to tell you. But I can't. Can't you just..." and then she trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.  
  
"Rip it out of your mind?" he finished for her. "No. I tried that once, and I have no interest in trying again. I've seen more than my fill of your petty little problems with Ronald bloody Weasley and whether or not you'd like him to snog you." On cruel impulse, he added, "It seems rather  _not_ , if you want my opinion."  
  
Her head snapped upward. Ah; that had got a reaction. She met his eyes now, her own filled with outrage. "Professor Snape, you had no right to--"  
  
He cut her off. "No right? You stupid little chit, for all I know there are Death Eaters advancing on the castle as we speak. I have every right to look into your mind, and if I thought it would help, I'd do so right now. And do you know what you could do to stop me?" he added, eyes glittering. "Nothing."  
  
Hermione broke eye contact again, her cheeks flushed. He waited for the inevitable retort from her, but none came.  _What has her this cowed?_  His curiosity was a living thing, twisting and writhing inside him.  
  
"Can't tell me. A tongue-tying curse of some sort, then."  
  
Hermione opened her mouth as though to say something, winced sharply, and then closed her mouth again.  
  
"I'll take that as a yes."  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest. The girl was uncharacteristically quiet and pale. She should be nattering on at a mile a minute. She should have endless theories and ideas about how to break the curse.  _Stupid_  theories, no doubt, but that had never stopped her before.  
  
She still wouldn't meet his gaze. That was typical behavior from most of his students, but not from brave little Gryffindor Granger. She seemed to make it a point of pride that she wasn't intimidated by her Potions professor. So why wouldn't she look at him?  
  
 _She knows_ , he realized.  _She knows exactly damned well how to break the curse_.  
  
"Granger," he said, quietly. She flinched, but refused to look up.  
  
"Look at me."  
  
With obvious difficulty she lifted her gaze toward him and looked into his eyes, but this lasted only a moment before she looked away again, over his shoulder.  
  
"Granger, there is often a key to breaking a tongue-tie curse. Some action that the recipient must perform in order to break the curse."  
  
"Yes, sir," she whispered.  
  
 _Oh, yes. That's it_. He felt a flush of satisfaction at having solved at least one part of this mystery.  
  
"Tell me the key, Miss Granger."  
  
She shook her head. "I can't, Professor."  
  
"Can't or won't?"  
  
She said nothing for so long that he thought he was going to have to command her to speak. But then, nearly inaudible, she said, "Won't." She was grasping one hand in the other, twisting them together in her lap.  
  
 _It will be some humiliation, then. I would wager any amount of Galleons that that bitch Lestrange is behind this._    
  
"Perhaps it would be easier for you to tell someone else. Shall I summon Professor McGonagall?"  
  
Her eyes flew open, and she gasped, "No! Gods, no! No, it has to be -- Professor Snape, I'm sorry, it's...it's..." and then she shook her head mutely.  
  
"It has to do with me specifically then, is that it?"  
  
Hermione nodded quickly, her face twisted in shame. Snape's stomach did a cold, lazy turn. This was almost certainly Bellatrix's handiwork. He began to understand the girl's horror.  
  
"Professor Snape," she burst, "there has to be some way to break it or let you Legilimens me or...something! Please, there  _must_  be some way to break a tongue-tie without the key. There  _must_." Her voice had taken on a note of hysteria, Snape noted with disquiet.  
  
"Miss Granger, I wish that there were." He spoke without his usual sarcasm. "There are methods, but they all require the one thing we do not have: time. We must break the curse now, and that means you have very little choice."  
  
She swallowed hard, and nodded. Her skin was pale white with high spots of color in her cheeks.  _Just as though she'd been slapped_ , Snape thought.  
  
"Let me ask you this, Miss Granger. I already have a very good idea who at least one of the culprits was. If that is all you have to tell me, then we need progress no further. But if there is more -- if there is information that I need to know, that the Order needs to know -- then it is your duty and responsibility to pass that information along to us." He fixed her with an intent stare. "No matter what the cost to you personally."  
  
Her whole body was trembling now, like a bell that had just been struck. He had a sudden urge to reach out and put his hands on either side of her to dampen the vibrations.  
  
He said quietly, "I believe you know that I know something about duty, Miss Granger."  
  
 _Let it not be said that a Slytherin knows nothing about manipulation_ , he thought. Her Gryffindor sense of honor would force her to reveal the information he sought. He could see her struggling with herself, making the decision. If she wanted to, she could claim that the identity of the Death Eater was all she had to tell. She could escape her fate, just that easily. But she wouldn't. He knew she wouldn't. He'd made sure of it. All he had to do was wait for her to decide...as though it were ever her decision to begin with. He reached for his cup of tea while he waited.  
  
Granger's eyes widened in horror. She shrieked, "No!" and then clutched her midsection as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Snape gave the tea an appraising look and then put it down, untouched.   
  
"Something about the tea, then," he said.  
  
She neither confirmed nor denied, only looking at him helplessly, but still, he thought it best to leave the tea for now. He arched an eyebrow at her, waiting for an explanation.  
  
Hermione, looking at her hands, said, "All right, yes. There is...more. More I need to tell you. You were right. So I have to...have to do this."   
  
"Tell me, Miss Granger."  
  
She raised her head to look at him. "Professor, please, are you absolutely sure you can't just pull it from my mind? Not even just this part?"  
  
He sighed. "I assure you that on my previous attempt I did everything within my power to find out any piece of information about your capture. I admit that having a student beg me to perform Legilimency on her is certainly quite a novelty, but I feel compelled to point out that you are wasting time, Miss Granger, and frankly you are trying my patience.  _Now tell me the key_."  
  
He could read the panic on her face, clear as text on a scroll. Normally she would have bristled at his tone, but now she simply looked frightened. He waited, unblinking. She had no choice. He would give her no choice.  
  
The silence stretched between them, thick and tangible.  
  
She swallowed, and then her face hardened; she'd clearly come to some decision. She drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and said, "There are two parts."  
  
He cocked an eyebrow and waited.  
  
"First, I have...I...I h-have..." She was faltering.   
  
There was a sick, heavy feeling in his gut. "Spit it out, Granger," he told her.  
  
"Fine! I...I have to kiss you!" she said then, almost angrily. She looked directly at him. "I have to kiss you,  _that_  is the first thing, and it has to be a...a..."  
  
"For fuck's sake, Granger."  
  
"...a real kiss," she finished, "they told me it has to be a real kiss, a...a good kiss." She still sounded angry, but there were tears sliding down her cheeks now.   
  
 _Goddamn you to hell, Bellatrix_.  
  
"And the second part?" he asked. He was rigid and still, betraying no emotion.  
  
"Professor, I really don't think I can do this." She wiped her sleeve across her face to clear it of tears.   
  
"You can and you will, Miss Granger. I assure you that whatever it is, I have done far worse in the service of the Dark Lord."  
  
This reminder seemed to stiffen her spine somewhat. She wiped the last of her tears, and looked up at her Potions professor with a resolute expression on her face.  _An easy mark_ , he thought.  _So simple to manipulate_. But the pleasure he would normally have felt in such an exercise was hollow and cold. Whatever Bellatrix had planned for him -- for  _them_  -- would undoubtedly be extraordinarily unpleasant.  
  
Hermione opened her mouth, closed it again. He could see her jaw trembling.  
  
There was a beat of silence, then another, and finally Snape said, "There are ways of forcing you to tell me, and ways of forcing you to do it. Those methods would be unpleasant for me and even more so for you. Do not make me resort to this."  
  
"No, I mean..." she faltered again, and then went on, "I mean, I don't think I...It's...they want me to...I mean, they told me to..."  
  
Snape stopped her. "First, Miss Granger, know that at the first reasonable opportunity, I shall find Bellatrix Lestrange and choke the life from her, preferably with my bare hands."   
  
Hermione's eyebrows shot up, but her professor smoothly continued, "Second, I would like you to simply repeat the words that they spoke to you, verbatim, to me."  
  
She nodded. "Yes. I can...I can do that." She took a deep breath, and then, staring at an unfocused point on the wall behind him, she said, "They said they wanted to humil..." and then suddenly broke off in a moan of agony, her face contorted in pain. She clenched her teeth together and stifled a scream; whether of frustration or pain, he could not quite tell.  
  
"I'm sorry, Professor. I guess I can't tell you the...the thing I was about to tell you. I hate this!" she cried out suddenly.   
  
"Granger, we have no time for histrionics. Tell me exactly what they told you about the key, and only the key, leaving out extraneous details, if you please."  
  
Her gaze met his for the barest fraction of a second, and in that moment he saw raw, brimming anger in her eyes. For him or for the Death Eaters who had cursed her, he couldn't be sure.  _Likely both_ , he thought.  
  
"Yes,  _Professor_. They told me...what I told you before, that I had to k-kiss you."  
  
He gave her a short, sharp nod. "Go on."  
  
"And then they said... they said, that wouldn't be enough. They said I would have to...to.... "  
  
 _No_ , he thought.  _No. Please, no._    
  
She closed her eyes. She was rigid, and her entire body was trembling. "To suck y-your cock, sir. And s-s-swallow the come. And then they laughed."   
  
Snape felt light-headed, as if all of the air had just been swept from the room.   
  
He stared at the girl, who was clearly keeping control of herself by only the thinnest of threads. She wasn't crying, or begging, or trying to bargain or reason her way out of it. She was simply holding herself tightly, and waiting for him to respond.   
  
 _No. Not with a student. Not because Bellatrix fucking Lestrange told her to. I don't want her._  
  
And then, just for a moment, gone from his mind nearly before he could even process it, he thought,  _Not like this._  
  
She interrupted his thoughts with a stammered, "But sir...I...I don't think...we can't..."  
  
He lifted an eyebrow and looked at her with a sudden surge of irritation. He would not make this easy for her. There was nothing easy about this, and it was her own fault they were both involved in it.   
  
"Professor, we can't, because... because..." The next words tumbled out together in a rush, "Well, for one thing, you won't want to."   
  
He wondered what it had taken for her to say that to him. And then, on the heels of that thought, he wondered just exactly what Bellatrix had told her.  
  
"They told you that, did they?" he said to the girl.  
  
She nodded wordlessly. Her eyes were bright and clear, unclouded by tears.  
  
He laughed, cold and humorless. "Yes, I'm sure that Bellatrix thought she was being very clever."  
  
Hermione said, "I'm... not sure I understand, Professor." Her cheeks flamed bright red.  
  
He regarded her somewhat less disdainfully than usual, and said, "No. You wouldn't."   
  
His thoughts turned inward as he decided how much to tell her. She held herself perfectly still while she waited for him to speak; as though she thought that as long as she didn't move, she'd be safe.   
  
At last he said, "I am going to tell you something in confidence, Miss Granger. I shall trust you not to reveal it to anyone, including your...friends." He made _friends_  sound unclean. "The dissemination of this information would have consequences for me that would be severe.  _Quite_  severe. Do you understand?"  
  
She nodded. "Yes, Professor."  
  
"Good." She flinched from his gaze.  _She feels vulnerable_ , he thought.  _As well she might_.  
  
"Miss Granger," he went on, "the reason that Bellatrix Lestrange was so certain that her instructions to you would prove unfruitful is that she is laboring under the misapprehension that I am...unable to perform."   
  
Hermione's eyebrows lifted in shock, but she said nothing. He saw with some satisfaction that her blush had deepened.  
  
"I have, in fact, worked quite diligently at making sure that she, and others, maintain this misapprehension. Do you follow my meaning, Miss Granger?" He hoped she would be able to restrain herself from the inevitable prying questions, as he had no desire to explain a Dark Revel. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw Muggle women being raped and tortured by gleeful Death Eaters, and heard the mocking voices:  _Too bad you can't play too, Sev! Give me a hand holding this one down, though, yeah?_  
  
He opened his eyes again; Granger said, "Yes, sir," but nothing more. He exhaled a private sigh of relief.  
  
"Bellatrix undoubtedly thought that it would be quite impossible for you to satisfy the conditions of the curse, thus leaving you tormented with knowledge you were unable to relay. I am sure she found this quite amusing. But I can assure you it is not impossible." He fixed her with a cold stare.  
  
Hermione tried one last time, "Professor, please, there must be some other way..."  
  
He said simply, "There is not." If she had cried, or begged, or called him names, he might have been able to hate her, and he wanted to; he wanted to be able to hate her for this. But she wasn't begging or crying. She was sitting in his chair, still and motionless, rigid and controlled. Whatever her private thoughts and feelings, she was prepared to go through with it.  _For the sake of her precious Order_ , he thought, as scenes from some of the things he'd done for that same Order flashed before his eyes.  
  
 _Enough self-indulgence, Severus. Get it over with._  
  
"Come here, Miss Granger."


	4. Chapter 4

Snape's tone brooked no resistance. Hermione thought,  _This is it_ , and rose from the chair to approach him where he stood, unsteady on her feet, as though standing on the deck of a ship in rolling seas. Snape rested his hands on her shoulders, looking at her with an expression she could not read. She opened her mouth and began to say, "Sir," but then he was upon her. He pressed one hand against the small of her back, pulling her close; the other hand held the back of her head, his fingers wound through her curls. His kiss was long and searching, almost violent. Hermione pushed back against his chest reflexively at first, but he only pulled her in closer, holding her to him, and she stopped resisting.  _You are kissing Professor Snape_ , she thought, and then,  _No, Professor Snape is kissing me_.   
  
Her mind flashed to Ron's fumbling attempts, but only for a moment before her attention turned back to her Potions professor, and what he was doing. She could feel the outline of Snape's long, lean body pressed against her, could feel his hands on her body and in her hair. Without intending to, she let her body relax into his, let herself kiss him back. It just felt so...  _No_. She would not allow herself to admit that. It was not, strictly,  _bad_ ; that is all she would allow.   
  
Snape found to his intense surprise that the woman in his arms was pressing herself tightly against him and was -- yes -- kissing him in return.  _Women do not kiss me voluntarily. She is making the best out of a situation that has been forced on her._  But he would extract every ounce of enjoyment from this opportunity while it lasted. He wound his fingers more tightly through her curls, eliciting a moan, and drew her body even closer. He could feel her heart beating, and her hands tracing delicately down his back.  _Gods, woman, what are you doing?_  With faint horror, he felt his prick stiffen slightly in response.  
  
When at last he pulled away from her, she looked no less surprised than he felt. She met his eyes for a long, half-dazed moment before realizing what she was doing and looking away again hurriedly. Snape was the first to break the silence. He asked roughly, "Do you believe that will satisfy the first condition?"  
  
She had trouble finding her voice, but managed, "Yes, Professor." He noted her flushed cheeks as well as his own elevated heart rate.  _What the hell just happened?_

-~-~-  
  
"Miss Granger, indulge me for a moment."  
  
They had disengaged from the embrace, but remained within arm's reach. Both studiously avoided looking at the other.  
  
"Professor?" Hermione swallowed hard, trying to sort through what had just happened. During the hours she had stood Petrified in his office, she had played the scenario of the kiss out in her mind dozens of times. She had thought that perhaps he might refuse to do it at all, which would have been rather a relief; or that he might do it quickly and harshly, as that seemed in keeping with his character. She had not -- could not have, could  _never_  have -- envisioned  _that_. He thought of her as an ugly, buck-toothed Mudblood. If she had learned anything in her years at Hogwarts, she'd learned that. But he wouldn't have kissed an ugly Mudblood that way... would he?  
  
Perhaps that was his way of mocking her after all, all the more devastating for its subtlety. That did seem more Snape-like. But she thought of his fingers wrapped through her hair and his arms pulling her close, and she wondered.  
  
His voice interrupted her thoughts. "Tell me the identity of the Death Eater that cursed you."  
  
Hermione nodded. Maybe the kiss had been enough. She took a deep breath and braced herself. "It was," she began, but then pain struck her, sharp and excruciating, causing her to cry out and double over. Snape reached out to support her, and she shook her head violently."No! Let me try again!" He nodded silently and stepped back. She opened her mouth again, and this time managed to get out the first sound, "B..." This dissolved into a moan of agony, and her body shivered with convulsions. It looked remarkably similar to the effects of  _Cruciatus_ , something that Snape was all too familiar with. This time he did reach out to steady her, with one hand on each of her elbows.  
  
"Thank you, Miss Granger. I believe that is enough."  
  
She looked up at him, breathing raggedly, and said, "I'm sorry, Professor. I tried."  
  
She expected some mockery from him, but he only said, "Yes. It was worth the attempt," and withdrew his touch.  
  
After a too-long silence, Hermione was the first to speak. She closed her eyes, because she could not stand to look at her Potions professor while she asked him this, and in a small, tight voice, she said, "Professor Snape...are we really going to do this?"  _Please, I can't bear it if you mock me for this._  
  
But he said only, "It would seem that we are." She nodded tightly in response.  
  
"Then I have to tell you one more thing," she said.  
  
He said, "Miss Granger," but she opened her eyes and looked at him with a trembling jaw and said, "No, let me finish! I'm only going to have the courage to say this once."  
  
He inclined his head in assent, waiting for her.  
  
"Professor Snape, I...I've never...I've never done this before. I don't know how. So it might not... might not work." Her face was flame-bright with embarrassment.   
  
 _Interesting. I suppose there's no N.E.W.T. on this topic._  
  
"Then, Miss Granger, I will teach you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a canon-compliance note, I have taken some liberties with Snape's attire because, well, I just prefer my version. Hopefully nobody minds too much.

"Do exactly as I say, and we will get through this quickly and efficiently. I am quite sure that you have no more wish to prolong this experience than I do."  
  
Hermione supposed that she ought to be offended by this, but truthfully, he was right. She just wanted to get it over with... though this did not keep her from audibly gasping when Snape began removing his outer frock-coat.  
  
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Surely, Miss Granger, this isn't the first time you've seen a man disrobe. Or perhaps it is? Has young Mr. Weasley not indulged you?"  
  
She set her lips together in a thin, hard line. "That's none of your business."   
  
"Apparently not, then." He draped the frock-coat over the back of the large, ornately-carved chair at his desk, standing before her in only his white long-sleeved shirt and his black trousers. Hermione realized suddenly that for all her years living in the world of magic, she had no idea how non-Muggle trousers opened. Did they use zippers, or button-flies, or...  _Focus_ , she told herself.  _You'll have your answer soon enough_.   
  
Snape was right, of course. She'd never seen Ron with his clothes off. Not for lack of his trying; he'd certainly suggested it or something similar often enough. She thought again of his fumbling attempts at groping and kissing her, and how she'd... yes,  _indulged_  him in it. He'd wanted more. How many times had he suggested to her hopefully, "I know a place we can go, 'Mione..."? But she'd told him she wasn't ready. And she wasn't. Not with him, anyway.   
  
 _No, apparently you were saving yourself for Snape_. She quirked the corner of her mouth up in a bitter smile; Snape noticed, and sharply said, "Something amusing?"  
  
His eyes were frozen black pools. She closed her own eyes to compose herself, and said, "No, Professor."  
  
 _I can't do this_ , she thought.  _It's Professor Snape. I can't. This isn't happening, can't happen._  
  
With a rapid flick of his wrist, Snape's wand was in his hand, and Hermione instinctively flinched. His mouth twitched, but he said nothing to her, only muttering incantations as he traversed the perimeter of the large, drafty room, casting repelling and silencing spells as he went. He paid particular attention to the sturdy wooden door, and to the large stone hearth set into the far wall. Yes. Good. Bad enough that they had to do this; worse if they were to be discovered.   
  
She'd been afraid that he would take her to his bedroom. She didn't think she could have borne that added humiliation. But it seemed it was to happen right here in his office; otherwise he wouldn't be so carefully securing it. It was a small relief; the office felt safer, somehow.  
  
After finishing the incantations, Snape concealed his wand, as quickly and dexterously as he'd produced it in the first place. He sat down in the high-backed wooden chair that Hermione had used earlier. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, and forced herself to breathe. Snape regarded her for a moment in seeming evaluation, and then, in a flat and disinterested tone, said "On your knees in front of me, Miss Granger."   
  
 _This is it, oh Gods, this is really it._  She did as she was told, carefully kneeling on the cold, stone floor in front of her seated professor. She thought distantly that her knees would ache before long.  
  
"Open my trousers," he told her.  
  
She bit her lip and looked at his waistband, seemingly featureless, and then tentatively slid her fingers along the inside, pushing her hand between the fabric and his skin, feeling for a clasp or catch. Snape closed his eyes and exhaled sharply--whether in irritation or impatience, she couldn't tell--and then took her hand in his and guided it to the right spot. "Here," he said. His voice was cold and dispassionate. She felt the buttons then, sewn in oddly off to the side. _Concentrate on the buttons. Don't think about touching Professor Snape._  But she  _was_  touching him; her hands pressed against the bare skin of his hip as she undid the buttons of his trousers. There were seven, and she wondered if there were some sort of magical significance to that, but the thought was fleet and brief, because then Snape shifted his hips slightly, reached down to make some adjustment that Hermione couldn't quite see, and freed his cock from his trousers.   
  
Her lips went suddenly dry.  _So that's what one looks like close up._  As she watched, it twitched and lengthened. She caught her breath. Was she making that happen? The newness of the situation made her forget her embarrassment, her humiliation. She watched the stiffening flesh in front of her with unabashed intrigue.  
  
Snape didn't know exactly what he'd expected from the girl; revulsion, maybe. Horror. Certainly reluctance. But not this... attentive interest. She had moved closer to watch his cock, and he could feel her breath on the sensitive skin there. He'd thought that he might have to use an enhancement potion, but no, that would clearly not be necessary. Not necessary at all.   
  
Hermione found that his cock jerked and lengthened every time she exhaled.  _That's Professor Snape's cock, and it's getting hard while he looks at you, Hermione._  His body was otherwise rigid and still. She was quite sure that his arousal had nothing to do with her specifically; likely he was envisioning someone more to his liking. Someone with pretty hair; someone who wasn't a student. Someone that he hadn't done everything in his power to deride and humiliate for the past six years. But she watched his cock twitching and reacting to her, and thought,  _it's not someone else making that happen. That's me. I'm doing that. I'm making you twitch. I'm making you hard. Whether you like it or not._  
  
"Use your tongue," he said, the sound of his voice breaking through the girl's preoccupied thoughts. His voice was still disinterested and flat; almost bored.  _Yes,_ Hermione thought.  _That will make this easier._  But it was already easier than she'd expected. A part of her mind was caught up in horrified shock that she was kneeling between Professor Snape's legs, about to use her mouth on him, but another part was curious… almost eager.  _If I can make it twitch just by breathing on it, then what can I make it do with my mouth?_  
  
His cock was so hard now that she could see the veins in it pulsing rhythmically. She wrapped her fingers around it at the base to steady it. His entire body tensed, but he made no sound.  
  
She was unsure exactly what he meant for her to do, but she was hardly going to ask him to explain, as though she were asking if her ingredients were correctly prepared in Potions class. But then, if this were Potions class, he would snidely respond that she would know she had done it incorrectly when he informed her of such.  _You can't say I haven't learned_  that  _lesson_ , she thought.  
  
Tentatively, lightly, she touched her tongue to the skin of his cock, just at the base. He jerked, but then stilled himself again. And then she traced the tip of her tongue all the way from the bottom to the tip, circling the top a time or two, and then traced back down again. Hermione was a keen and careful observer in this as in most other circumstances, and she noted that her professor's flesh had become even more hard and taut since she'd begun.  _He likes this_.  
  
Snape's jaw was clenched and his eyes were tightly shut. He was using every ounce of his self-discipline to keep from audibly moaning. How long had it been since a woman touched him this way? Years? Decades? There had been a few girls after Lily's rejection, and a few... unwilling girls, after he'd become a Death Eater. But then he'd begun feigning impotence. What woman would have had him anyway? A sallow, greasy Death Eater: Hardly. It had been a dozen years or more since he'd felt a woman's mouth on him, willing or unwilling, and...   
  
Hermione's tongue found the sensitive slit at the tip of his penis and slid into it. This at last drew an uncontrollable moan from him. She noticed, she must have, because she did it again, pushing the tip of her tongue in and circling it back and forth. He moaned again, and this time pushed his hips forward to meet her.   
  
 _No_ , he thought,  _I will not lose control to her. I will not._  But he moaned again even as he thought this; the feel of her mouth moving over him was unbearably good.  _I can't make her stop.  
  
I won't._  
  
Hermione concentrated her efforts at the tip; his reactions told her that he was the most sensitive there. It sent a dark thrill through her when he began to moan and thrust. She could tell that he was holding back, that he didn't want to reveal his enjoyment.   
  
She began leaving little nibbling kisses around the swollen head of his cock. He gasped, and shifted his hips, and she realized with a shock that she was enjoying herself as well. This thought should have been disturbing, repellent. But... it wasn't.  _Yes. Yes, I am enjoying this. I am enjoying making him hard, making him moan. I am enjoying this so very much indeed._  
  
Snape, for his part, was rapidly losing the battle to maintain self-control. He had underestimated the Granger girl's capacity to be a quick study, even in this situation.  _Especially in this situation; she never learned a new spell as quickly as she learned how to suck your cock._  Another moan escaped his lips. He could not stand much more of this.  
  
Roughly, his voice neither calm nor detached anymore, he said, "Take it into your mouth; all of it." She paused for the first time and looked up at him with searching brown eyes--sending him rocketing even closer to the edge--and then she nodded quickly, and did as he'd instructed. She instinctively knew how to maintain the right amount of pressure. He could feel her lips sliding up and down his cock, and could feel her moaning. Gods yes, she was making little quick noises in the back of her throat every time she took him fully into her mouth. The finest mind in House Gryffindor was kneeling between his legs with her lips wrapped around his cock, moaning.  
  
 _She is going to hate me after this humiliation. Even more than she already does._  
  
He was seized by the sudden impulse to draw it out and make it last; make the girl between his legs work for her prize. He reached down and wound his hands through her hair and pulled, just a bit, and then a bit more, just to see what it would take to make her stop, to distract her from her task. But if anything it only seemed to drive her even harder. He was hurting her; he could see tears of pain in her eyes. But still she wouldn't stop. He realized dimly that this was having the opposite effect that he'd intended, that he was so much closer, so much faster, but he had stopped caring. He heard himself gasp "don't stop" and knew that he was pulling cruelly at her hair and pushing her head down onto his cock again and again, but he didn't care about any of that; she made gasping little ecstatic sobs that he could feel more than hear-- _how much would I have to hurt this girl to make her stop sucking me?_ \--and her mouth was so good...  
  
Hermione knew that Snape was inflicting pain to try to control his own pleasure.  _He's using you_ , she thought, but this realization only made a warm ball of heat expand deep inside her.  _He's using you for his pleasure._  His hands pulling her hair hurt a little, but he was inflicting that hurt because he was enjoying her mouth so very much.   
  
 _Go ahead, pull as hard as you want, Professor; I won't stop._  She was faintly aware that he was moaning actual words now, "don't stop," and then he pulled her head down tightly onto his cock and thrust it deep into her mouth. Her eyes watered, and she gagged a little bit, but then her mouth was full of a warm, salty liquid and her knees went fluid and weak at the realization of what she'd done to him. Of what she'd made him do.  
  
Snape closed his eyes and let his head rest back on the chair; the girl was swallowing it. All of it. She was--he hissed--gently sucking the rest out of the tip. He released her hair and let his arms fall to his sides, feeling his heart hammering in his chest.   
  
She said something, but her mouth was muffled against his thigh. His stomach turned over; she would likely be full of recriminations, or tears. He felt he could stand neither from her.   
  
She turned her head and swept her hair away from where it had fallen across her face, and said again:  
  
"Bellatrix Lestrange."   
  
She gasped a sob of relief then, and looked up at him with bright, glittering eyes. "Professor Snape," she said, "I have a lot to tell you."   
  


-~-~-  
  
Snape wasted no time in putting himself back together, rising and donning his frock-coat again. With it buttoned all the way to the high collar, he looked as he always did, as Hermione was used to seeing him; and some of the terrifying surreality of the preceding incident was swept away.  _Did that really just happen?_ she asked herself.   
  
She licked her lips, and tasted the salty residue there. Yes; it had happened. But Snape apparently had no interest in discussing it, which she found a relief. He sat now in his usual chair, and she took a seat in the high-backed wooden one, and they faced each other across the broad mahogany expanse of his desk. A single bead of sweat glistened on his brow; it was the only sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened.   
  
For his part, Snape noted that the girl had regained much of her usual composure and confidence. She sat tall in her chair and faced him levelly; her pale faltering from earlier was gone.   
  
He steepled his fingers and regarded her with one slightly cocked eyebrow, considering his next step.  
  
"Miss Granger," he said, "You are going to tell me everything."  
  
She opened her mouth, but he said, "Forgive me," and before she had time to react, he invaded her mind again. Just as before, it was as easy as sliding into a quiet pool of water.  _She has no defenses whatsoever; if she went before Voldemort, he would read her like a book._  
  
Snape rifled through her memories, scene after scene playing in her mind's eye for his examination. This time was different than before; this time, he wasted no effort rummaging around in her thoughts about the Weasley boy, or N.E.W.T. exams, or her holiday plans. He sought something specific: the moment she'd encountered the Death Eaters in his office. Her panic rose as she realized what he was after; she didn't want to relive that. He felt her trying to force him out of her memories. His lip curled. Her efforts had no more effect than a butterfly's wing flapping.  _You think you can keep a master Legilimens out of your mind, girl?_  
  
He kept pushing, kept driving forward towards the memory he wanted. Granger gave up resisting, undoubtedly realizing that her attempts were useless... and then he reached what he sought. There was no wall stopping him from seeing the memory this time. No; this time it was as clear and sharp as though he'd been there himself.   
  
In the girl's mind, he saw her leave Gryffindor Tower, descend into the dungeons, and enter his own office with her research proposal in hand. She had been surprised that his wards were down, and called out his name, only for a Death Eater to cast Petrificus Silencio on her before she even had time to react. He heard Bellatrix Lestrange's mad, high-pitched laugh; and he watched Lestrange and another Death Eater--Jensen; Snape recognized him as one of the Dark Lord's sycophants--advance on the now-helpless girl.   
  
Granger moaned in protest, but Snape was relentless, inescapable. He gave her no choice but to relive what had happened next.  
  
 _She could not possibly hate me more than she already does._  
  
He sank deeper into her mind, watching the rest of the encounter unfold. Bellatrix laughed at Granger, taunting her, asking why she wasn't fighting back. The Death Eater noticed the fallen parchments, and nudged them with her foot. "Mudblood scratchings," she said with scorn. "Burn them."  
  
Jensen scuttled over to scoop them up from the floor, and did as his mistress had commanded. Hermione could hear the fire roaring up off to her side, and heard the scrolls crackling and burning.   
  
"Oh, poor Mudblood, were those  _important_?"   
  
The hair on the back of Hermione's neck rose up. Bellatrix had circled behind her, standing well out of sight. Every nerve in the girl's body screamed for her to run. But she couldn't. She couldn't even twitch, could barely even force air into her lungs. And then Lestrange touched her wand lightly to the nape of Hermione's neck. The thrill of terror that coursed through her was so intense that it felt almost like an electric shock.   
  
 _I am going to die_ , she thought. She thought of her parents, of Harry, of members of the Weasley clan, all flashing through her mind in the space of an instant. But Bellatrix only laughed, and prodded the back of Hermione's neck with her wand, and said, "Poor little Mudblood, you thought I was going to  _hurt_  you! No, I have better plans for you."   
  
She withdrew her wand, and snapped at Jensen, "Come with me." They disappeared somewhere to the rear; Hermione could hear them moving around, rummaging through bottles and flasks. They were in Snape's private laboratory and storeroom, looking for something by the sounds of it.   
  
"He has it!" Lestrange cried. "He is  _lying_! I know he is! It must be here!  _Find it!_ "   
  
But based on the sounds the girl was able to overhear, they hadn't found it. Snape, observing this memory, smiled humorlessly. Of course they hadn't.  
  
But then Bellatrix's voice had turned sly and giggly; a sound he knew all too well.   
  
"No matter," she told her associate. "You have the potion I made up? Give it to me."  
  
As Snape/Hermione listened, they added it to... something. Bellatrix giggled again, a mad awful sound, and then muttered to herself, at the very limits of Hermione's hearing, "A special brew for the Potions Master... I think he'll enjoy it very much indeed. Oh yes, he'll simply  _love_  it, and the next time he goes before our Dark Lord and tries to hide all the foul thoughts in his filthy mind he'll  _pay_." Her cackle rose into a shriek, "Our Dark Lord and master will see him for _what he truly is_!"   
  
Snape's spine went cold. Lumia potion. They must have dosed his tea with Lumia. Had he taken even a single sip since returning to his quarters and finding Granger frozen? He thought he had not... though thanks only to her warning.   
  
 _And her repayment is you invading her mind for the second time tonight without permission._  
  
He brushed this uncharacteristic thought away as being indicative of a morality that he had neither the time nor the patience for.  
  
In Hermione's memory, Bellatrix and Jensen returned from the storeroom, flanking the frozen girl on either side. "Let's have some fun now, Jensen!" Bellatrix hissed. Her tone reminded Snape of Voldemort's lisping tenor, and he wondered, not for the first time, how many of the Dark Lord's proclivities and inclinations were imprinted onto his twisted, broken plaything.  
  
Bellatrix positioned herself directly in front of Hermione, her face completely filling the girl's field of vision. Snape felt the girl's rising terror and panic. The Death Eater tapped a finger on her own chin thoughtfully and said, " _You_  look like the type of girl that would run and tattle on us! We simply  _can't_  have  _that_. You'd ruin all our fun!" With a giggle, she pointed her wand directly at Hermione's throat and incanted, " _Logocaesura!_ " Hermione felt her throat constrict briefly, then relax again. Lestrange put her wand away with an elaborate flourish.  
  
"There, that's sorted!" she said, and then frowned. "But that's not very sporting, is it? That's not very  _fair_. You'd like a fair chance, wouldn't you?" She waited expectantly as though Hermione were going to answer, and then with another giggle--the sound grated on Snape, even filtered through someone else's mind--she said, "Of course you would. So here's what we'll do, my delightful little Mudblood. We'll give you a chance. A...  _challenge_ , you might say. Naturally, you'll fail." Another giggle, and this time Jensen joined in, with a grunting chuckle and a leer. "But if, by chance, you  _don't_... then you'll be able to tell anyone you want anything at all about what you saw here today." Lestrange's lips stretched into a wide rictus, and she leaned forward until her nose was almost touching Hermione's.  
  
She whispered, "But you won't tell. Because you won't meet this challenge, darling little Mudblood. Although perhaps.... mm, yes, perhaps you'll have lots of fun _trying_."  
  
Then, more loudly, as though announcing it to a crowd, she said what Hermione had repeated to Snape earlier that evening: "You're to kiss Professor Snape, and it's to be a good kiss. A  _real_  kiss." Snape noted, with a faint wrench in his gut, that when Granger had related this to him, she had failed to mention the complete and consuming horror and humiliation she'd felt.   
  
 _Not, of course, that I care. Or would have expected anything else._  
  
She'd been forced to choose between either degrading and humiliating herself with her Potions professor, or letting him be murdered by the Dark Lord. He told himself that her horror and humiliation were to be expected under the circumstances.   
  
He knew what came next, and could have withdrawn from her mind at this point, saved her having to relive it. But he wanted to know exactly and precisely what Bellatrix had said to the girl. Perhaps Granger had left out some important nuance, some critical detail, when she was relating the story to him.   
  
If it occurred to him even for a moment that he might want to see the girl's reaction to being told she'd have to suck his cock, he dismissed the thought instantly. It was of no matter to him how she felt about it.  
  
No matter at all.  
  
In the memory, Bellatrix laughed gaily and went on, "Of course, that's not all. That's only the  _first_  part. Would you like to know the second part? Hm?" She giggled, and Jensen's face lurched into a grinning sneer.   
  
"This is the part I think you'll enjoy the most; the part you'll  _savor_. Oh, I do hope you try, even though you are utterly... and completely...  _doomed_  to failure." Hermione's heart pounded in her chest so hard that she thought she might be on the verge of fainting.  
  
The Death Eater leaned down so that she was level with Hermione, and caressed the girl's face, drawing a line down her cheekbone with a single long nail.   
  
"You're to suck your professor's cock, little Mudblood. Get him nice and hard," she said, tracing her fingers down the curve of Hermione's jaw and onto her throat, "and then, at the end, you're to swallow his come. Mm, doesn't that sound nice? Doesn't that sound  _lovely_?"   
  
Snape was almost forced out of Hermione's mind, just as he had been the first time, by the shockwave of her reaction. Thoughts flooded her mind, half-formed and panicky:  _I can't it's Professor Snape there must be some way to I can't do it I've never done it he'll kill me for even being in here he'll kill me for making him do this he won't do it I can't do it it's Snape it's Snape it's Snape what do I do we'll find another way I can't let him drink the tea I can't let him die but I can't do this either oh Gods I don't know what to do..._  
  
No, he supposed she didn't know what to do, and he also supposed that this was very unusual for her. Miss Hermione Granger, book-perfect at casting spells and brewing potions, always first in the class, always quick to know the answer to every problem. Every problem but this one.  
  
He allowed himself for just a moment to relive the memory of her lips on his skin.  
  
Her next memories were of himself, entering the office and finding her there frozen. He had no need to view those; he remembered very well what had happened afterward, and had no desire to feel the hatred and revulsion she'd experienced during the... event.  
  
A voice whispered inside his head,  _but she was moaning in pleasure_. He suppressed it harshly.  _She imagined someone else. Or perhaps her moans were of humiliation, not pleasure; either way, it is of no consequence. She is a student, and a particularly irritating one at that, and if I experienced a moment of carnal pleasure with her, it's only to be expected after denying myself for so long. Nothing to do with her at all._  
  
He withdrew from her mind; she jerked forward and gasped, and for just a moment, their eyes locked, hers blazing with cold intensity.  
  
"You didn't need to do that," she said.  
  
"It was the best way."   
  
"No. I know. I mean, you could have asked."  
  
He lifted an eyebrow, and she said, "I would have said yes."  
  
He shrugged with a slight twitch of his shoulders, and said, "It is done, and would have been either way, so asking you was completely irrelevant." He saw her face darken with anger, and continued smoothly, "Miss Granger, much though I am sure we would both enjoy the flurry of accusations and recriminations you are clearly about to shower on me, I must inform you that there is a rather immediate problem. One that I admit I am quite surprised that someone of your obvious intellect has failed to observe."  
  
"Oh?" she said, visibly taken aback.  
  
"Yes. Your efforts today have at least given me some warning, but the fact remains that the next time I go before the Dark Lord, I am likely to die."


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione's face had gone completely white.   
  
Snape said, "You are familiar, I believe, with the work I do for the Order?" He sounded no different, no less calm and composed, than if he were asking her the ingredients of some potion in his classroom.  
  
She hesitated, on uncertain ground. "Professor...I, uh, think the term is 'double agent'."  
  
He inclined his head toward her and said, "That is an accurate assessment. I won't bore you with the details of intrigue in the Dark Lord's immediate circle; suffice it to say that our mutual acquaintance Ms. Lestrange suspects that I am not being entirely... _honest_  with the Dark Lord."  
  
Hermione knit her eyebrows together. He easily anticipated the inevitable follow-up question: "Professor Snape, why are you telling me this?"  
  
He pushed back the arm of his robe and rolled back his shirtsleeve, displaying the Dark Mark, currently pale and quiescent. He was grimly satisfied to see the girl recoil.   
  
"This is why. At any moment, this Mark may turn black, and at that time I must appear  _instantly_  before the Dark Lord. If that happens before I am...adequately prepared, then my life will be forfeit. And so," he said with a dark glance at her, "will yours."  
  
He could read the confusion in her face, a thousand questions bubbling their way to the surface. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighed. "I have neither the time nor the patience for an interrogation, Miss Granger. I realize that it is not in your nature to simply stay quiet and pay  _attention_ , but right now that is exactly what I need you to do.  _Do you understand?_ "   
  
She returned his gaze, cocking an eyebrow.  _That's my trick_ , he thought.  _Impudent_.   
  
"I understand," she said.   
  
"Good. Now. Are you familiar with Lumia potion?"  
  
She frowned. Her eyes glazed over as she attempted to recall the properties of one of the more obscure and rare potions; he'd certainly never discussed it in class.  
  
"It...it alters brain chemistry, Professor," she said. "It prevents the taker from..." She stopped, going pale and bringing her hand to her mouth. "From being able to successfully use Occlumency."  
  
 _Five points for Gryffindor_.  
  
"Indeed. Miss Granger, your memory is accurate as usual. I am sure you can see the difficulty this presents me."  
  
"But sir, you didn't take the..." She broke off, seeing his glare and remembering her promise not to ask questions.  
  
"Indeed I did not; nor will I. But Lestrange will expect that I have, and therefore so shall the Dark Lord. He will expect to find my mind completely defenseless and free of any obstruction--the mind of someone with no Occlumens ability whatsoever."  
  
He fixed her with his gaze again. "Much like yours, Miss Granger."  
  
Hermione flushed, remembering his invasion of her mind and what he'd seen there.  
  
Snape appeared to take no notice. He continued, "Once the Dark Lord realizes that I have not taken the potion, his next question will be to ask why. Clearly, I must have found out about the tampering; and the only reasonable way for me to have done so would be to...." He paused, his eyes shifting away from her. Hermione blinked; she could not recall ever before seeing him appear unsure.  
  
"...To break the curse," he finally said. "Something that I have given him cause to believe would be physically impossible for me."  
  
"I believe the most likely outcome will be my death. Immediately followed by your capture, certainly your torture and interrogation, and likely your death as well. I am afraid that Bellatrix has planned this perfectly."  
  
He cleared his throat, and then, focused somewhere behind her, he said, "I regret that you have become involved in this, Miss Granger."  
  
 _Could that have been an apology?_  On a day filled with impossibilities, this seemed the biggest one yet.  
  
"It's my own fault, Professor," she said. "I shouldn't have been in your office without permission." His expression didn't change, and she hurriedly continued, "But sir, surely Vol--You-Know-Who wouldn't go that far, would he? I mean, killing a Hogwarts teacher and student..."  
  
Snape interrupted her. "He would. And he will." His face was expressionless, and his eyes never left her face.   
  
The surreality of the situation caught up with her in that moment, and she thought wildly,  _Fifteen minutes ago my mouth was on him_. She shook her head a little to clear it.   
  
"Professor," she said, "is there really no other way you could have got the information? I mean, couldn't you have...tortured me for it? You're a master Occlumens. Surely you could make him see that image in your mind."   
  
She thought that perhaps she'd overstepped her bounds. He regarded her in silence for a long moment; she could not tell whether he was angry at the suggestion, or simply considering his response.  
  
"Yes," he said at last. "That would be a possibility. But in order to convince the Dark Lord that I had tortured you, I would need to construct a highly detailed image with strong emotional resonance. Unfortunately, the..." He stopped abruptly. Hermione was on the verge of asking what was wrong when he continued, "The most recent image I have of you in my mind with strong emotional resonance...would not be helpful. In this situation."  
  
The blush Hermione had been trying to hold back suddenly erupted in full bloom.   
  
"Oh," was all she could manage. Snape was rigid, staring into unfocused space.  
  
And then, tentatively, she said, "Professor, can we...construct a new image?"  
  
His gaze snapped back to her face.  
  
"Explain."  
  
"Well, sir...if you  _actually_  tortured me, you'd be able to use that instead, right?"  
  
He looked at her in flat disbelief.  
  
"Miss Granger. The  _only_  way to break a tongue-tie curse of that complexity without satisfying its requirements would be to inflict severe and extreme torture on the victim."   
  
"Cruciatus," she said.  _I will not panic. I can do this._  
  
He gave a sharp nod. "Yes. I have withstood its effects. You are younger than I, and far less experienced at defending against the Dark Arts. Setting aside the fact that it is an Unforgivable and not something I am inclined to cast lightly, if at all, I believe it would...be impossible for you to withstand."  
  
"You think it would break me," she said.  
  
"Yes." He winced immediately after saying it.  
  
She thrust her chin forward. "You won't break me. Cast it," she said.  
  
"Miss Granger, this is not necessary. Given time to prepare, I can successfully Occlu--"  
  
She interrupted him: "You said there might not be any time. You need an image of me being tortured. I'm here.  _So do it._ "  
  
Snape's breathing came short and shallow. The girl was right. This was the best opportunity they had. He could use the real and vivid images of her torture and construct a realistic...a  _believable_  structure around them. But Cruciatus on a student... ( _Especially on this student_ , his traitorous mind whispered.)  
  
He looked down to find that his wand was in his hand. Hermione stared at him with dark brown eyes, unflinching.   
  
 _I have badly underestimated this girl_ , he thought.  
  
"Forgive me," he breathed. And then, before he lost his nerve:  
  
" _Crucio_."  
  
-~-~-

Voldemort's throne in the lower levels of Malfoy Manor was large and elaborate, elevated above the rest of the cavernous dungeon room by magic; a show of braggadocio meant to keep his followers in their rightful place. Snape knelt before it on one knee, head bowed.   
  
It was difficult not to contrast this with Dumbledore's tower office, all books and simple flagstones. Nothing ornate there. Nothing ostentatious. Barely recognizable as a Headmaster's office at all.   
  
Snape thought of the meeting he'd had there the day before, after he had...finished with Granger. He'd given Dumbledore and McGonagall a bare-bones account: the names of the Death Eaters that had broken into his quarters, and the information that nothing had been stolen. They had inquired as to Miss Granger's condition, and he'd told them she was unharmed.  _Except that she was forced to suck my cock and then I cast Cruciatus on her_ , he thought.  _No harm done to your prize pet Gryffindor, I'm sure_. He was convinced that Dumbledore knew he was holding something back, but the old wizard knew better than to try to force information out of his Potions instructor. They'd have to cast Cruciatus on him themselves before he told them what he'd done to the girl that day.  
  
And their time would be far better spent figuring out exactly how Death Eaters had got into Hogwarts.  
  
All of these thoughts passed through his mind in the space of no more than a few seconds; and then he shut them away behind the featureless wall of Occlumency. It was an familiar and comfortable process to him after so many years, as easy as closing a well-oiled drawer. He felt Voldemort's icy tendrils probing at his mind already; this too was a familiar sensation, and meant that Voldemort had now discovered Snape's failure to consume the Lumia potion. It was no matter, though. Snape had had a full day before the Mark on his arm glowed with dark life, calling him here. A full day to build a believable structure for Voldemort's examination. It was perfect.  
  
The Dark Lord would find nothing amiss.   
  
Snape heard a mad, high-pitched giggle, and knew it was Bellatrix Lestrange. With his head bowed, he could not see her, but knew she would be sitting in her usual place, on an ornately decorated couch next to the elevated throne. And she would be staring in adoration at the snake-like creature perched on that throne; staring with adoration and lust. Behind the wall he had constructed in his mind, he felt the powerful mad urge to seize her and choke the life out of her. It subsided; he was master of this emotion as of all others. There would be time enough for that later.   
  
 _If I survive this._  
  
Snape wondered where Voldemort's snake, Nagini, was. He thought he'd heard a dry slithering as he entered, but there was no trace of her now. Snape found this unsettling; he preferred to keep tabs on the snake's location at all times.  
  
"Severus!" Bellatrix cooed. "What a lovely surprise!"   
  
"Bellatrix," he murmured, inclining his head slightly while keeping his head bowed in deference.  
  
"We have been...so looking forward to your latest report!" She burst into a fresh cascade of giggling.  
  
He heard the Dark Lord's voice now: "Rise, Severuss."  
  
Snape rose gracefully from his kneeling posture and stood with legs slightly parted and hands clasped behind his back; waiting, as always, like a good servant. Voldemort smiled indulgently at Lestrange, and reached down to stroke her hair. She shuddered and moved her head towards him in the manner of a cat being petted, her eyes rolling back slightly in her head. Snape watched impassively, a reaction borne of long practice, waiting until Voldemort's reptilian eyes shifted to where he stood.  
  
"Sseveruss, I am prepared to hear your report."  
  
Snape nodded.  _Here we go_. "Yes, my Lord. There has been recent activity that I believe you will find highly interesting. But first..." He paused, hesitantly, with a note of nervousness.   
  
"...I must ask you if I have given you cause to doubt my loyalty, my Lord."   
  
Voldemort furrowed his brow into scaly ripples, and spoke, his speech threaded with sibilants, "Ssseverus, why do you ask me thisss?"  
  
Snape let his gaze flicker quickly to Bellatrix, and then back to Voldemort. "I have reason to believe, my Lord, that Miss Lestrange and her cohort were in my chambers at Hogwarts, with the intent of dosing my tea with Lumia--for what purpose, my Lord, I am unsure, and thus the question I laid before you." He stepped back, bowing his head obsequiously.   
  
 _It is in these moments that we define ourselves. Life or death, balanced on the fine edge of a knife._  
  
He waited in the silence. After a long moment, unbearably long, he heard Voldemort's inhuman hiss. He dared not look at the Dark Lord's face and so could not gauge his reaction.  
  
"Bella, my... _dear_ ," came the smooth, unctuous words, "is thiss...true?"  
  
Snape allowed himself a glance at the Death Eater. Her face had gone a gratifying shade of white. She trembled, pointing a shaking finger at Snape. A gabble of broken, outraged syllables poured out of her, gradually forming into a teapot crescendo of screeching, and culminating with, "He is a liar, a  _traitor_! He couldn't possibly know that unless he has been  _LYING_  all this time. My Lord and Master, you know he must be  _LYING!_ " She turned to Snape, who still waited in perfect calm, and shrieked, " _You couldn't know, you couldn't possibly, you...you.._."   
  
Voldemort made a subtle gesture with his hand, and the sound was abruptly cut off. Bellatrix's mouth still gaped open, but no sound emerged. She looked up at the Dark Lord with large, pleading eyes, the expression on her face perfectly clear:  _He's lying. I've discovered him for you. Shall I not have my reward?_  In return Voldemort merely looked directly into her eyes and went still. After a moment, he said only, "Ah...I see."  
  
Voldemort let his gaze rest on Snape, who had remained silent through the entire performance.  
  
"Is thiss...true, Sseverus? Did you allow a filthy little Mudblood  _slut_  to suck your cock? After turning down so many... _finer_  choices, over the years! I admit I am quite... _sssurprised_...to discover this information." He toyed with his wand, letting it lazily drift back and forth but keeping it always pointed in Snape's general direction.  
  
"My Lord, of course not. As you know, I couldn't, even if I had wanted to."  
  
"Then explain." Instantly, the casual playfulness was gone from Voldemort's voice, leaving only a cold threat.  
  
" _Crucio_ , my Lord."  
  
"On a sstudent! You surprise me, Severuss."  
  
"Yes, my Lord. It was rather easy. She offered very little resistance."  
  
Voldemort sucked his breath in sharply. He liked this thought, just as Snape had suspected he would.  
  
"Let me ssee," he hissed. Before Snape could respond, Voldemort plunged into his mind. He quickly found the scene: Snape dispassionately holding his wand on his student as she shrieked in agony and writhed in helpless twisting circles on the floor, until she finally gave up all the information the Logocaesura curse had protected. The Dark Lord inspected this scene with attentive care, savoring every moan, every plea, every cry. Snape had known Voldemort would enjoy watching a Mudblood student suffer, particularly one as close to Potter as this one. And so he had made it last. He had made Granger suffer. She had screamed in agony, and then pleaded for him to stop, and finally begged for death. "Kill me," she'd sobbed. "Just end it,  _please_!"  
  
Voldemort particularly enjoyed that bit, reviewing it over and over again and laughing, a cold and awful sound that crawled down Snape's spine. But Snape's mind was disciplined; he was prepared. He allowed himself to feel a frisson of pleasure at the Dark Lord's seeming approval, and knew that it had not gone unnoticed.  
  
"Sseveruss, I would not have thought you had it in you."  
  
Snape nodded in affirmation. "It was...not unenjoyable, my Lord." And in the false version he had constructed for Voldemort to examine, it had not been. He'd hidden his reluctance, and the way he'd pretended the girl was Bellatrix Lestrange in order to muster up the necessary emotional state to cast the curse.  
  
Voldemort chuckled, the menace gone from his voice; behind him, Bellatrix was screaming silently, the cords in her neck standing out, her entire face glowing red. Snape could see her lips forming the word "traitor" over and over again.  
  
"I'll deal with my pet later. She does oversstep her bounds from time to time. I trust you did not actually consume any of the Lumia?"  
  
"No, my Lord. That would have left me exposed and defenseless to the Order."  
  
"Indeed. I shall sspeak to Bellatrix about thiss."  
  
Snape observed Lestrange's hysterical reaction and memorized it mentally. He would enjoy and savor it later, in privacy.   
  
Voldemort was still speaking, "...something you had to tell me, ssomething...highly interesting?"  
  
Snape nodded again. "Yes, my Lord. The Order is attempting to create a potion that will provide protection against Dark Magic."  
  
Voldemort threw his head back and laughed. "How charming. As though a potion could protect them from  _me_!" A few Death Eaters dared a chuckle, from the edges of the room. "But surely, Sseverus," he said, "this is not what you found...interesting."  
  
"No, my Lord. I have led them to believe that firedrake scales are a key component of this potion. They are expending great effort in the pursuit of this ingredient."  
  
Voldemort's eyes dilated perceptibly. Yes; he'd taken the bait. "And are firedrake scales indeed a key component?"  
  
Snape smiled slightly. "Of course not, my Lord. But when they obtain them for this potion, I should have no difficulty in procuring a few for my own purposes."  
  
"Excellent work, Sseverus. The sooner you can finish my restoration potion, the better."  
  
Snape had planted that seed long ago. A few manufactured "ancient" scrolls and a careful word dropped here and there had done the trick. Voldemort believed that Snape knew how to create a potion that would restore him to full strength and power; a potion that required firedrake scales as a key ingredient. Firedrake scales were one of the rarest ingredients known, impossibly difficult to obtain. Few wizards had even seen one, much less collected a supply of them. And so Snape's story had bought the Order some much-needed time.  
  
But time was running out; Voldemort had become impatient. Snape suspected that Bellatrix and her piggish little friend had been searching for firedrake scales in his quarters, on Voldemort's specific instructions. The Lumia potion, of course, had been her own clever little idea, and was the reason she was clawing at the inside of an invisible cage right now, silenced and struggling. It didn't pay to be too clever around Lord Voldemort.   
  
The firedrake scales were a red herring, of course. There wasn't a potion in the world incorporating them, and for good reason: the second you tried to use any sort of magic around them, they burst instantly into flames. It was one of the reasons firedrakes were such a menace in their natural environments; impossible to use spells against them without burning down half the forest. Their primary application was as use in fireworks. Voldemort, having no interest in dragons or potion lore, was unaware of this.  
  
Still. Too clever. Too clever by half. Voldemort's mounting impatience meant that Snape had to claim that he was getting closer and closer to creating the potion. Eventually, it was inevitable that his subterfuge would be discovered, and then, well...  
  
But enough self-pity. There'd be time for that later.  
  
Voldemort still casually held his wand, but had lowered it at last. "Inform me at once of any developments in obtaining the scales, Sseverus. I'll expect a report in no later than two weeks' time. You've done well."  
  
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you."   
  
As he turned to go, Voldemort said, "One last thing: The girl. Potter's Mudblood friend. Will she run and tell her Headmaster about what her  _nasty, awful_  Potions professor did?"  
  
Snape stopped without turning around, and said, "Unlikely, my Lord. I Obliviated all of it from her mind."  
  
Voldemort laughed again--chilling, inhuman--and said, "Sseverus, I continue to underestimate you. Carry on."  
  
He nodded, "Yes, Lord," and hurried from the chamber, feeling Voldemort's serpentine stare on his back until the doors firmly closed behind him.  
  
 _Still alive. Surprising._


	7. Chapter 7

Snape summoned the last remaining shreds of his energy to Apparate back to the gates of Hogwarts, and had barely anything left for the long trek to the castle. He was nearly at the door to his quarters, bone-tired and thinking only of sleep, when he noticed the cloaked figure huddled near his door. On hearing his approach, the figure rose to a standing position. With a lurch in his stomach, he realized who it must be, an instant before she pushed the hood from her face.  
  
"Miss Granger," he said, "to what do I owe this...pleasure?" He had intended sarcasm, but managed only exhaustion and weariness. He noted that she looked equally weary, and wondered how long had she been waiting for him on that cold stone floor.  
  
Without emotion, she said, "Did it work?"  
  
"Not here," he said, and with a series of gestures, unwarded the door to let them both through. She hesitated before entering; hardly surprising, considering what had happened the last time she was here. But it was a brief hesitation only, and then they were both inside the large sparsely-furnished stone room where they had last met.  
  
"Care to have a seat?" He gestured at the high-backed chair facing his desk, and after a moment's pause and what appeared to be a brief mental calculation, the girl nodded her assent. Wrapping her cloak tightly around herself, she perched gingerly on the edge of the chair.  
  
He took the other seat. It would have suited his disposition to remain standing, but he was just so damnably tired.  
  
"Professor," she began, but he interrupted her.  
  
"Miss Granger, you asked me if it worked. If by that you are asking me if I was able to successfully deceive the Dark Lord into believing that I tortured you for information, rather than obtaining it by any... _other_  means, then yes. I believe I was successful."  
  
She closed her eyes for a moment, and some of the tension left her posture.   
  
"Thank you, Professor. That's all I needed." She rose to leave, but he stopped her, sudden impulse bringing the words to his lips before he had time to think:  
  
"Miss Granger, I do not understand why you will not let me Obliviate this from your mind."  
  
Her gaze betrayed no emotion. "Thank you, Professor. I would just...I would rather you didn't."  
  
Hidden by his sleeve, his fingers slid along the polished wooden surface of his wand. It would be so easy for him to do it without her permission; she must know that. She was standing there, almost expectant, as though she were waiting for him to do it.   
  
To violate her again.  
  
No, he decided. If she wanted the memory of being forced to suck his cock, of being humiliated and shamed, of being made to writhe in agony while begging him to kill her...if she wanted that, she could bloody well have it. It was of no matter to him.  
  
He nodded. "As you wish. But..."   
  
She lifted an eyebrow, waiting. Uncharacteristically silent, again.  _You made her beg for death, Severus. Do you expect her to be her normally chatty self?_  
  
He knew what he had to do. Not Obliviate her, though it would be so easy; the work of a moment, and then all of this would be forgotten. She could go back to being the classroom know-it-all, an answer to every problem ready on her lips. But...nobody knew exactly what the long-term effects of Obliviation were. Except that if you did it to someone too many times, it turned them into a vacant, gibbering wreck. He imagined this bright, sharp-witted girl in that condition, and a wave of revulsion rose up inside him. Likely this is also why she herself was anxious to avoid having the spell performed on her. They needed her mind, her talents, her ability to solve problems.   
  
And so, even though he wanted nothing more than for her to be out of his sight, out of his classroom, out of his life, there was only one thing to be done.  
  
"You must learn Occlumency. Having this... _information_  in your completely defenseless mind is dangerous. I'm sure you're smart enough to understand why." He let his words drip with sarcasm. It was easier for him to fall back into the role of sneering Potions professor; easier to distance himself from what they'd done. _From what you did to her._  
  
Her gaze never faltered.  
  
"Do I? I suppose I do. Who do you suggest I find to teach me?"  
  
The words hung between them; they both knew the answer.  
  
Finally he spoke, his words clipped and cold. "Be at my Potions classroom tomorrow evening at 7. Do not be late, or I will take 10 points from Gryffindor for each tardy minute."  
  
She nodded in acknowledgment. "Yes, Professor. I won't be late." And with a sweep of her cloak, she was gone.

-~-~-

That night he dreamt of her, kneeling between his thighs, her eyes flashing teasingly at him as she ran the tip of her tongue along his prick. The dream-Granger was even more talented and enthusiastic than the real one had been, and he woke in a cold sweat, his cock throbbing, ready for release. He threw the bedcovers off and got out of bed, pacing around his bedchamber, running his hands through his hair.   
  
He was not some teenager, to be enthralled with a girl, having puerile dreams about her desire for him. And even if he  _did_  want that, he'd hardly get it from this girl. He'd degraded her, humiliated her, tortured her. He could still hear her screams; could see her scrabbling uselessly at the floor, unable to gain any surcease from the pain. He had held his wand on her relentlessly, far longer than he had thought he could, wanting and needing to make it last, make it real, make sure that it would  _work_. Inevitably, too, making sure that she would despise him.   
  
His mind drifted again to how her mouth had felt sliding over his cock, and realized that none of this had done anything to help with the reason he'd woken up in the first place. No; he would allow himself no relief this evening. He would not give himself pleasure while thinking of  _her_. No. No, he would not.  
  
He ran a shower with water that was glacially cold, and stayed in it until his skin was mottled and blue. It did the job. But he got no further sleep that night.

-~-~-

Hermione, for her part, spent the night staring at the shadow-stippled ceiling of her bedchamber. She supposed that one of the benefits of being Head Girl was that she didn't have to pretend to be asleep for the benefit of her roommates.   
  
If she closed her eyes, she could feel the Cruciatus curse again, feel herself writhing and twisting, desperate to make the pain stop. She could see Professor Snape's face, twisted with cruelty, watching her scream. She hadn't wanted to scream, but the sounds had been wrenched from her, almost as though Snape were drawing them out of her with his wand, his hateful wand.   
  
And what a stupid, ridiculous situation to have got herself into, simply because she was so over-eager to share her research with a professor that openly despised her.  _But he was the only one that would have understood_ , she thought. Snape was cruel and belittling, but he also had a sharp mind and a fine eye for detail, not to mention a comprehensive knowledge of potions. She wondered if he would have looked at her work; if he still would. Bellatrix had only burned one of her copies. She still had the original stashed in her room.  
  
But she was in no mood, no position to ask him for favors right now. She'd barely been able to stand being in the same room with him earlier that evening, but she'd had to know. Had to know if he'd been successful; if he'd shown Voldemort her torture, and if Voldemort had believed it. Had to know if there would be Death Eaters sent for her.   
  
He said that he had achieved his task, and she believed him. No Death Eaters on their way.  _Except the one in the dungeons right now_ , she thought.   
  
She closed her eyes, weary beyond reason, and again heard her own screams, felt the Cruciatus, saw his sneer. You couldn't use Cruciatus against someone unless you really despised them. It had to come from a place of true hatred. He had to have been able to muster that up from somewhere.   
  
 _He liked what I did to his cock, though. He didn't despise that_ , she thought with some vindictiveness. But maybe that had made it easier for him to cast the curse on her. Maybe his humiliation at being made to submit to some... _Mudblood_ , had given him what he needed to torture her afterward.   
  
She could have let him Obliviate it from her mind, and she had been tempted. It would be as though it had never happened. He'd go back to simply being her Potions professor, and she'd go back to being his most irritating student. She knew it would have been easy for him to do it. She wondered why he hadn't done it to her anyway.   
  
She knew why she'd refused him: She couldn't bear the thought of Snape looking at her and knowing what she'd done while she remained stupidly ignorant. The thought roiled her stomach.  _But... it's not just that, is it?_  
  
No, it was that she'd made him enjoy her. She'd given him pleasure, and they both knew it, and she would not let him take that away from her.   
  
She wanted to be able to stop thinking about Snape and what he'd done to her--and what she'd done to him. She wanted to never see him again. She wanted sleep.  
  
But instead, she lay in her room, staring at the ceiling, while the hours ticked silently past.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day, at breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry remarked that she was looking a little tired. Ron interjected, "Yeah, you've looked like a wreck all weekend, 'Mione!" and then colored red as he realized what he'd said. He stammered over himself, "Er...not that...I mean, you look fine, really...it's just..."  
  
Hermione sighed and said, "It's fine, Ron. I understood what you meant. Anyway, I'm all right. Studying too much for N.E.W.T.s, I guess."  
  
Harry and Ron exchanged a knowing look.  _Typical_ , it said.   
  
Harry said, "You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Hermione. You've got dark circles under your eyes. I mean, not that... well, what Ron said. You look pretty rough."  
  
Ron glanced at his friend appreciatively. "See!"  
  
A faint smile touched Hermione's lips; they were endearing when they were protective. But her current problems were hardly a burden she wanted to share. She tried to imagine how that conversation would go:  _Well, guys, in the past three days I've been Petrified by rogue Death Eaters, given my first blowjob--which was to Professor Snape, by the way--and endured Cruciatus. Also from Professor Snape. How was your weekend?_  Her mouth quirked a little. It was slightly more than a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks was likely to sort out.  
  
"What's so funny?" asked Ron, looking hurt.   
  
"You," Hermione said with affection. "Both of you. You're sweet, that's all. But really, I'll be fine."  
  
Ron and Harry shared another glance, and then both of them shrugged, like mirror images. It was too ridiculous for Hermione not to laugh.   
  
After breakfast, Ron accompanied Hermione out of the Great Hall and in a low voice said, "After dinner tonight, want to...hang out?"  
  
The lightness of mood she'd been enjoying vanished instantly. "Hanging out" meant Ron coming to her room and groping and pawing at her for a while. She usually indulged him, working under the vague assumption that it's the sort of thing you're supposed to do as a girlfriend, but she simply couldn't stomach it tonight. Not tonight.  _Maybe not ever again._  It was all she could manage not to grimace in revulsion at the thought of Ron's tongue probing her mouth, and his big sweaty hands sliding up inside her jumper. She flashed to the memory of Snape kissing her, but she suppressed  _that_  thought instantly.   
  
Ron was still at her side, like an eager puppy, anxious for her answer.  
  
"Oh, Ron," she said, "I just can't. I'm so swamped with research and studying, and I just don't have time. I'm going to probably spend most of the night in the library, to be honest."  
  
 _I have a date with Professor Snape._  This thought popped out at her with no warning, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep from giggling. Ron had enough of an inferiority complex without his thinking she was laughing at him.   
  
"Aw, 'Mione. Are you sure? You study all the time! Aren't you caught up by now?"  
  
"Ron, N.E.W.T.s are  _important_! Honestly, you should think about taking them a little more seriously yourself."  
  
He rolled his eyes. This was well-traveled territory between them. "Yeah, right. Well, at least I'll see you in Potions later on."  
  
"Yes. Later, Ron." Her tone brooked no further conversation.  
  
Ron's shoulders slumped as he slouched off toward his next class. Hermione knew she'd have to end things with him, sooner rather than later. It had been coming even before the events of the prior weekend, but it felt more pressing now. She simply didn't think of him romantically. Not anymore. She wasn't sure she really ever had. He'd shown interest in her, and she'd been flattered by that, and of course they were good friends. But there was no spark, no fire. He didn't make her feel the delicious, shivery warmth expanding in her belly that she'd felt with Krum.   
  
 _Krum, Hermione? I think the last time you felt that way was when you were kneeling between Snape's legs._  She folded her arms over her chest and held them there tightly. This was exactly why things had to end with Ron. She had to sort out her feelings, and she had to do it alone. Without the help of Ronald Weasley. She hoped their friendship could weather the storm. 

-~-~-

Potions class was a nightmare. She came prepared to simply ignore Professor Snape. She'd assumed that he would do the same. But instead he was... well, breathing down her neck. He'd begun by asking the class to name the three key ingredients of the  _Fleur-de-Lis_  potion. Hermione knew, obviously; it was a simple potion from the third-year book. But she didn't raise her hand. She didn't want to call attention to herself, didn't want to have to speak to Snape any more than necessary.   
  
He apparently felt no such compunctions. "Miss Granger," he said, "I cannot fail to notice the lack of your eager hand, waving furiously in the air." Some of the Slytherins snickered, and her cheeks burned.  _Why is he doing this?_  
  
"Can you tell me," he asked her, "the ingredients of  _Fleur-de-Lis_?" He drifted over to her desk, standing directly in front of her and tapping his wand on it. The wand she'd last seen pointed at her face while he Crucioed her.   
  
 _Tap. Tap. Tap._  
  
She hesitated, and cleared her throat. "Uh, Professor, I believe they are forget-me-not, lily of the valley, and Jack-in-the-Pulpit, in equal proportions."  
  
His voice was like a satin-sheathed knife. " _Very_  good, Miss Granger. Five points from Gryffindor..." Her head shot up and she met his gaze for the first time, her eyes opened wide with confusion. "...for knowing the answer and not bothering to raise your hand." She heard open laughter from the Slytherins. Draco Malfoy in particular looked highly entertained by this new humiliation his Head of House was inflicting on their least-favorite classmate.  
  
And then he did it again. Twice more he forced her to give the answer even though she hadn't raised her hand, and then took House points from her after she answered correctly. When she finally did raise her hand in response to a question, he ignored her, even though she was the only student with her hand in the air. She fought back hot, stinging tears of shame. He carried on this way for the duration of the class, forcing answers out of her if she didn't raise her hand, and ignoring her raised hand when she did try to answer. Ron and Harry's faces were tight with fury, but there was nothing they could do. They'd learned from long experience that complaining to Snape about unfair treatment in class would only result in loss of House points, detentions, and other unpleasant punishments. So they watched impotently as Hermione bore her humiliation publicly and yet alone.

-~-~-

Snape did not fail to notice the glares being sent his way by Potter and Weasley. He wondered how much Granger had told them about her weekend activities, and then decided she must have stayed quiet, or the two boys would have had their wands at his throat before class even started. No, they were reacting solely to this little humiliation he was putting her through. When class ended, Granger rose stiffly from her desk and quickly turned to go; quickly, he suspected, because she wanted to leave before tears spilled openly down her face. That is what he had reduced her to.  
  
He told himself that it would have been unusual for him  _not_  to humiliate a Gryffindor in his class. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd held a student up for ridicule in his classroom. Particularly not this student. He was only maintaining appearances. It was standard operating procedure for his class, and nothing more.   
  
And if there was a quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him that he had publicly humiliated her that day as a form of punishment, he ignored it. Ignored it almost completely.  _Punishing her for what, Severus? The crime of showing up in your fevered dreams?_

_-~-~-_

Later that evening, Snape watched his office door in restless anticipation. He half-expected her to skip their appointment, after what had happened in the classroom earlier. He eyed the pocket watch he'd left open on his desk. But just as the hour hand ticked onto the 7, there was a knock at the door.  
  
He assumed the disdainful expression he customarily wore in the classroom, and opened the door with a gesture.  
  
She was in her Head Girl robes, he noted, and realized that he'd expected her to be in the same cloak she'd worn the previous evening. She held a sheaf of loosely-bound parchment, and her face was taut and composed. She avoided his gaze as she entered.   
  
"Miss Granger, I did not assign you homework for this meeting."  
  
"No, sir." She looked toward the general direction of his face, but never into his eyes. "If you recall, the whole reason that I...that..." She faltered, but recovered quickly. "...that I was coming to find you on Friday, is that I had a research proposal I wanted you to look over."  
  
 _She never stops. Amazing._  
  
Before he could respond, she said, "Please, Professor Snape. I know it's...it's extra work for you. I don't mean to burden you. But I think there are some good ideas there and I'd like you to read it. Please."  
  
She was clutching the papers so tightly that they were crumpling slightly under her fingers. "Leave it on my desk," he told her. "I'll deal with it later."  
  
She did as he said, and then stood clasping her hands in front of her, twisting them together. Snape rose from his seat and approached her, coming close enough to make her flinch.   
  
"Miss Granger, I am going to look into your eyes, and then into your mind. I want you to try to stop me."  
  
Before she could respond, he caught her gaze and said, " _Legilimens_."   
  
Hermione felt him in her mind again, rifling through her memories and looking for something. She could tell that he sought a specific memory. She pushed back at him, but his presence in her mind was strong, massive, powerful. It was like pushing against a stone wall. Her efforts were weak and useless.  
  
"Try harder, girl." She wondered faintly how he'd managed to speak, and then redoubled her efforts to push him out, to no avail. Nothing she did seemed to have any effect at all.  
  
And then he found the memory he sought. It was from earlier that weekend; she had been with Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor common room. Ron was talking about some Quidditch team he admired, while Hermione tried to hide her exhaustion and feign at least mild interest.  
  
At first she couldn't think why Snape would be interested in this particular memory. And then with hot anger, she realized:  _He thinks I told them. And he wants to know what I said._  
  
Sudden fury boiled out of her in a powerful, unstoppable flood; everything she'd felt and suppressed since the Death Eaters had Petrified her three days earlier, all the shame and fear and rage and anger. Her thoughts rose into a scream of outrage, " _GET OUT! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! HOW CAN YOU NOT TRUST ME? AFTER WHAT I DID FOR YOU, HOW CAN YOU NOT?_ " and then somehow, inside her mind, she  _pushed_  him.  
  
He staggered backward, breaking eye contact. She found that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Snape's breathing was heavy and ragged, as though he'd just run a long distance.  
  
Looking away from him, she said in a low voice, as steady as she could manage, "I never would have told. Never. Not to anyone."  
  
"Granger, look at me."  
  
She did, her eyes narrowed with anger. He said, "I knew you had not. But I wanted something specific and recent. I wanted to see if you could keep me out of such a memory. It...rather seems that you can. Although," he said with a twitch of his mouth, "it was not particularly subtle."   
  
"No, Professor, I suppose it wasn't." The ghost of a smile touched her lips.  
  
"You'll work on that. I shall attempt to view that same memory. Keep me away from it.  _Legilimens_!"  
  
 _I'm not ready!_  she wanted to say, but it was too late, he was inside her mind again, and there she was, sitting next to Ron and Harry, listening to them talk about Quidditch.   
  
 _How can I keep him out?_  She'd managed it before only with an uncontrollable outburst of rage. His presence in her mind was too powerful; she couldn't get him out, couldn't stop him from seeing and hearing anything he wanted. But then... she had an idea.  
  
With considerable effort, she summoned a different memory, of a day some weeks ago. In it, she sat next to Ron on her bed, running her hand along his leg, over his trousers. His face contorted with pleasure, and his hands roamed over her jumper, squeezing and pinching her breasts through it. "'Mione," he groaned.  
  
Inside her mind, Hermione felt Snape's focus turn to this new memory. The scene played in front of her eyes as though she were there again; she'd hidden her irritation at Ron's clumsy fumbling, and let her hand drift over the crotch of his trousers. He gasped, and she gave him a few light squeezes through the fabric. He tensed suddenly and moaned, and a large wet spot appeared under her hand. Ron's face colored red, and he stammered, "Hermione...I didn't mean...it was just so good..."  
  
She let him squirm in embarrassment for a few seconds before smiling and telling him it was fine, letting him off the hook. He got up and stumbled out of her room, unable to even look her in the face.  
  
Snape abruptly withdrew from her mind; he stared at her in what appeared to be cold fury.  
  
"Why did you show me that particular memory?"   
  
She shrugged lightly, nervously. "You hate Ron. I thought that if I showed you some humiliation of his, it would distract you from the other one, the one you were after."  
  
Snape's face hardened. "Do not presume to know my mind!"  
  
"It worked, didn't it?" she snapped in return.  
  
He couldn't argue with this, and so only clenched his teeth together, a muscle working in his jaw. She was only partially right. Her distraction had worked, but not for the reason she thought. Seeing the Weasley boy's humiliation was entertaining enough, yes; but the real distraction was Hermione. He'd felt an unexpected wave of sheer, pulsing fury when she'd touched the boy's cock, followed by visceral satisfaction when she went on to rebuff his further advances. He'd let this completely distract him from his original purpose.   
  
Had she known that he would have this reaction to seeing her touching someone else? Was she  _using_  him?   
  
 _Get control of yourself, Severus. Do you really believe her to be capable of such manipulation?_  He glanced at her; she was wringing her hands together and avoiding his gaze. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be rid of her.   
  
"I think that's enough for now, Miss Granger. You may leave." He turned away from her, back to his desk--where her wretched research paper sat, waiting for him--but she didn't leave.  
  
"Professor?" she asked. There was a hint of tremor in her voice.  _No. Just go. Please, just go._  
  
"Miss Granger, I believe I dismissed you already."  
  
"Sir, please. I need to say something."  
  
He ground his teeth together again; the beginnings of a blockbuster headache were forming in his temples.  
  
"Make it quick, Miss Granger; you may find this difficult to believe, but I have other things to do this evening than listen to you prattle."  
  
A brief pause, then, and "Professor Snape, it's about Potions class..." She took a deep breath, clearly trying to control herself. "Sir, I don't think I can withstand many more days like today."  
  
He spun on her, his face tight with anger. "You can and you will, Miss Granger, because if any of those little Slytherin fucks that call themselves my students were to notice anything  _amiss_ between us, anything at all, any  _change_ , any  _deviation_ , then you may rest assured that they would instantly run back to Mummy and Daddy Death Eater and tell them all about it. And what do you think that the Dark Lord would do with this news?"  
  
The blood ran out of her face.  _Didn't think about that, did you?_  he thought with bitter satisfaction. It was hardly the first time he'd savaged her with his words; he expected her to turn and run from the room. He  _wanted_  that.  
  
Instead she lifted her eyes to his, her face pale but composed. She said, " _Is_  there something amiss between us, Professor?"  
  
He froze. She only waited, with her bright brown eyes and her messy curls; biting her lip and waiting for his answer, the answer that was so apparent in his mind that if she'd had the slightest skill in Legilimency, she'd have been able to pluck it straight from the air.  
  
He let the corner of his mouth pull up into a sneer, assumed his most intimidating professorial tone, and said, "There is not, Miss Granger. If there were, your life would be forfeit as surely as mine would. Now. Get.  _Out._ "  
  
At last she did, closing the door behind her. He watched the space where she had been, and knew that he had just told her a lie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this version of the universe, there is a Yule Ball every year at Hogwarts.

It was an hour and a much-needed tumbler of Firewhiskey later when he finally picked up her papers from where she'd left them on his desk.  _H. Granger_ , it said in neat lettering at the top of the first page. Precise. Always precise. Always logical.   
  
Undoubtedly she analyzed him as she analyzed everything else in her life. He could find out easily enough. He could drag up her memories of him and examine them, moment by moment, feeling everything that she felt and hearing every last one of her thoughts. If he cared enough to, of course.   
  
He laughed, a short bark. Hardly. He hardly cared what she thought of him. At any rate, it was obvious. He'd violated her, tortured her, made her scream in agony. The only possible feeling she could have toward her tormentor would be hatred. Pure, unrefined hatred. He didn't need to look inside her mind to see that. She must find his presence intolerable. It was surprising to him that she had even agreed to Occlumency lessons.  
  
Well, she wasn't lacking in courage. That much was clear. And he was used to being reviled by the people around him. She was no different. Just another student.  
  
He ground his teeth. No, she would have been just another student, if she hadn't been so damnably ill-fortuned as to run into a pair of Death Eaters while trying to deliver a fucking research paper, of all things. Now she was... a distraction. A distraction that he neither needed nor wanted.   
  
He wanted to hate her in return. He certainly had in the past, along with her obnoxious friends. And it was her fault that he'd been forced into this situation. Her fault that he was so fucking  _distracted_. But he couldn't. He'd tried to summon it up, tried so many times, but it simply wasn't there to be summoned.  
  
And every time he thought of her, he remembered. Even now, the image of her chestnut curls moving between his legs rose unbidden to his mind.   
  
 _No._  A wave of self-disgust swept over him, so powerful that it brought bile to his throat.  
  
He shook it off. He was stronger than this. She  _was_  just another student, nothing more. Speaking of which... he reached out and opened her paper to the first page, beginning to read.

-~-~-

An hour later, he had not moved other than to turn pages, some of them now dog-eared as he'd gone back and forth multiple times, checking again and again to make sure he was reading her work correctly.   
  
 _She cannot possibly understand what she has discovered._  
  
He was vaguely aware that his heart was pounding. The implications were staggering, if the girl's theories were correct.  _It's Granger; of course they are_ , he thought. But he hadn't stayed alive as long as he had by relying on unverified information. It would be a sleepless night in the lab.   
  
Granger's work was nominally about increasing the range and power of certain spells. But the really interesting part, the part that had made his mouth go dry and his hands tremble when he read it, had been tucked into a tangential side-discussion, almost a footnote. She couldn't have realized what she'd found, or she'd have already gone to the Order.   
  
Instead she'd come to him. After everything he'd done… she'd come to him. But he'd consider the implications of that later; he had more pressing obligations at the moment.  
  
His mouth twitched as he realized that at last he had actually found a use for firedrake scales. Bellatrix was quite correct; he did indeed have a stash of them in his quarters. It always pays to hedge one’s bets. He'd procured a supply long ago, when he'd first had the idea to bait Voldemort with them. If the Dark Lord ever became suspicious or impatient, Snape would be able to produce the scales to buy himself some more time.   
  
But he was nowhere near stupid enough as to keep them in his storeroom. They were underneath one of the flagstones in the hearth. And for now that is where they would stay; no need getting too excited until he'd done some tests first. Firedrake scales were, after all, quite difficult to obtain.  
  
Snape found that he was looking forward to the prospect of spending a long night hard at work on testing a new potion, free from other worries or distractions.  
  
 _Hard work is exactly what you need right now, Severus. Stay disciplined, stay focused, and you will stay alive._  
  
He rolled up his sleeves.

-~-~-

The next morning, Hermione sat in Herbology class and tried to pay attention to what Professor Sprout was saying about homunculi roots. The night before had again failed to bring sleep. At breakfast, Ron, with typical tact, had said, “Hermione, you look like  _hell_!” She’d rolled her eyes and ignored him, but she had to admit he was right. The exhaustion and turmoil of the previous few days showed plainly on her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles underneath, and her hair was a wreck... or somewhat more of a wreck than usual, anyway. She felt as though she could crawl under her bedcovers and stay there for a week.   
  
But N.E.W.T.s loomed on the horizon. And Snape’s attempts to teach her Occlumency; couldn’t forget that.  _Doomed attempts_ , she thought. She’d just barely been able to push him out of her mind with pure rage, and had been able to briefly distract him with... well, with Ron. But those would hardly work on Lord Voldemort.   
  
Of course, finding herself in front of Lord Voldemort would mean that so many things had gone so badly wrong that her failure to Occlude would be no more than a minor detail under the circumstances. But Snape wouldn’t be bothering to try to teach her if he didn’t think it was a possibility.  
  
"Miss Granger!" Hermione's head snapped upright and she realized that Professor Sprout had called her name several times already. "Everything all right, my dear?" the short old professor said, frowning.   
  
Hermione turned pink and said, "Yes, Professor. Sorry, just a bit tired today. I apologize."   
  
Her instructor waved a dismissive hand and said, "No need! Simply explain to me how one goes about uprooting a mandrake," and carried on as though nothing were amiss. But Hermione berated herself for the lapse.  _Pull yourself together, for Merlin's sake.You can't let on that anything is wrong._    
  
She forced herself to be more attentive for the rest of Herbology. Afterward was lunch, and Hermione nearly excused herself early to avoid having to feign interest in her friends' conversation, until she noticed that Ron and Harry were talking about Quidditch. It would have been more unusual for her to  _participate_  in a Quidditch discussion. She turned her attention to her lunch instead, and worked on quieting her mind and stilling her jangling nerves. Potions class was next.  
  
Hermione entered the classroom two minutes before class was scheduled to begin, daring only a quick look at Professor Snape out of the corner of her eye. She kept her head down and made her way quickly to her lab table, hoping to avoid notice.   
  
Today, though, Professor Snape seemed distracted. He assigned the class the relatively simple task of brewing the first stage of Polyjuice potion and then retreated to a shadowy corner of the classroom, lurking there in his usual bat-like way. Hermione breathed a quiet sigh of relief as she realized that today she would not be held in the crucible.  
  
As she worked on unsucculating her first leech, she allowed herself a few glances in Snape's direction. His brow was furrowed, and he had a distant expression in his eyes. He was clearly deep in thought. She wondered whether it had anything to do with her, but then told herself to leave it. He was ignoring her, and that’s exactly what she wanted.  _Isn't it?_  
  
At the least it was better than yesterday. After his outburst the previous evening, she had expected more, and worse. Perhaps he was saving it all for their next Occlumency lesson. She sighed, a little more loudly than she'd intended, and then dared a look at Snape. He was still frowning off into the distance.  
  
 _Well, good_ , she thought, and turned back to her work. Neville’s cauldron, situated directly next to hers, was glowing a faint pink. She thought she might lend him a subtle hand before the whole thing went pear-shaped--quite literally; it looked to her eye as though the mixture was building up to a small explosion--and attracted the eye of Professor Snape. No, today she was quite happy to escape his notice.   
  
Though she did wonder what had him so preoccupied.

-~-~-

As soon as class finished, Hermione put away her notes and quills and parchment, moving so quickly that her hands shook slightly. She wasn't ready for another conversation with Snape. Not yet. She intended to be gone before he had a chance to confront her. She saw him move out of the corner of her eye, and without looking in his direction, she shouldered her bag and hurried from the room. She knew she couldn’t avoid him forever; she didn’t even want to. Just for right now. Just for today.  
  
Before she’d made it halfway to the stairs at the end of the hall, though, she heard Ron behind her, calling out, “Hermione! Wait!” She stopped, arranged her face into a semblance of a smile, and turned to face him, her eyes flicking to the Potions classroom door for only the tiniest fraction of a second.   
  
“What’s up, Ron?” Her voice sounded much more pleasant and light-hearted than she really felt. Gods, she wanted sleep. She turned to continue down the hall, but Ron, failing yet again to read her body language, stayed exactly where he was, clearly intending to have this conversation right there in the dungeons. She suppressed an irritated sigh. It was just as well this way. It was cold down here, and damp, and the discomfort would keep them from having a lengthy chat.  
  
“Well, uh... I was just wondering... you know...”  
  
It took all of her willpower not to shriek at him to  _spit it out already_.  
  
“The uh... the Yule Ball…”  _Oh, Gods. Of course_. Hermione felt sick.  _How am I going to get out of this?_  
  
Hogwarts’ annual Yule Ball was approaching. It was an excuse for the students, particularly the sixth- and seventh-years, to dress up and put on grownup airs for a night. This year, with the war against Voldemort in full swing, the student body needed it more than ever. Hermione had overheard countless discussions and debates about who was to accompany whom. The political intrigue was enough to rival the most complicated machinations at the Ministry of Magic.   
  
Most years, Hermione hadn't even bothered to find a date. There had been the once, with Krum; she had to admit that had been quite lovely. But generally she found the Ball a tiresome nuisance, serving no purpose but to distract her from her studies. Her sole concession to taking the damn thing seriously was asking Ginny Weasley for help in finding an appropriate gown and doing her hair. This year, she hadn’t even managed to do that much. She’d forgotten about the Ball entirely. She did a quick calculation and realized with faint horror that it was to be the following weekend.  _Left things a bit last-minute, didn’t we, Ron?_  she thought, rather uncharitably; really she wished he weren’t asking her in the first place. But he was, fumbling and stammering over his words. Typical Ron.  
  
“...I was wondering if you wanted to go. With me. Because you haven't said. So… you know, I was just… wondering. Wondering if you wanted to go with me. I said that already, didn’t I?” he finished, miserably. His face matched the shade of his hair near-perfectly. Hermione felt a sudden wash of pity for him; she had not been terribly kind to him lately, and yet he had still mustered up the courage to ask her this. She opened her mouth to respond, and then snapped it shut again immediately. Malfoy, surrounded by a small group of Slytherins, had emerged from the Potions classroom. He was smirking; with a sinking feeling, she realized that he must have heard the last bit of her conversation with Ron. Always sensitive to the impending humiliation of someone of lesser status, Malfoy had seen immediately that there was something here worth picking at. He glided over to where Ron and Hermione stood, and cooed, “My my, troubles in paradise? Let me guess... the school  _dance?_ ”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “Shut up, Malfoy,” while Ron glared, the veins in his neck bulging and his face going past red and straight into purple.   
  
Malfoy smiled indulgently and pretended to examine a bit of dirt on one of his fingernails. “Aw. Poor Granger. It must be tough when the only person who appreciates your...  _charms_ …” He glanced at her hair, and waited until the Slytherin goons behind him finished sniggering obediently before continuing, “…is Weasley here, who can’t even afford decent looking  _school_  robes, much less something appropriate for the Ball. Guess you’ll just have to go alone... again.”  
  
Ron’s mouth was open and working, with no sound coming out. Hermione reflected that she spent entirely too much of her time protecting her friends from their own testosterone.  _Perhaps not today, though_ , she thought, seized by a devilish impulse. She was tired of keeping Ron out of trouble, tired of being mocked, tired of all of House Slytherin. One Slytherin in particular, although the one standing in front of her at the moment would do nicely as a substitute.   
  
Hermione lowered her lashes at Draco, and then simpered, in her best Pansy Parkinson imitation, “Malfoy, it’s so  _nice_  of you to take an interest. I understand you’re having a bit of difficulty finding a date yourself this year. Are you...  _asking?_ ”  
  
Draco’s demeanor changed in an instant. Now he and Ron were  _both_  staring at her with red faces, Malfoy’s angry and Ron’s astonished. Hermione was good at piecing together bits of information, and she’d overheard enough whispered fragments of gossip over the past few weeks to know that Lucius Malfoy was out of favor in the Dark Lord’s circle, and furthermore that his son was suffering by association. Pansy Parkinson had found someone more politically favorable to attend the ball with, and so far Draco hadn't found a replacement date.   
  
Draco's thoughts were plainly visible on his face: If even bookworm Hermione Granger knew... who else did? His initial look of dumbfounded astonishment transformed into a snarl of cold, naked fury. On any other day that would have been good enough for her, but his humiliation was too irresistible; she wanted to prod him just a bit further, make him cringe and squirm like she’d been made to in class the day before.  _How does it feel, Malfoy?_    
  
And so with a wide, flirtatious smile, she said, “Oh, no worries, Draco;  _I_  certainly don’t have any problem with whatever your dad has been up to lately. I’m not that sort of girl. Always found Death Eaters a bit boring, to be honest.”  
  
Ron was staring in open-mouthed shock.  _There are quite a few things you don't know about me, Ronald Weasley_ , she thought.  
  
Malfoy trembled with fury. His face was bloodless and white, with two feverish spots of color high in his cheeks. Hermione found her hand creeping towards her wand; it occurred to her with a jolt that she might have really pushed him over the edge this time.   
  
In a cracking, high-pitched voice, Draco said, “You know  _nothing_  about my father. You know  _nothing_  about me. And by the time we’re finished with you and your kind, you’ll know  _nothing at all forever_ , you filthy  _MUDBLOOD!_ ”   
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Ron going for his wand. She thought,  _Oh no_ , and then time seemed to slow down. She reached for her own wand, but Malfoy somehow already had his in his hand, aimed between her eyes, while Ron’s wand was aimed in turn at Malfoy. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to run--but before her body could respond to the command, she heard a familiar baritone voice, and everyone froze.  
  
“Mr. Weasley. Mr. Malfoy.” A pause, and then, “Miss... Granger.”  
  
Snape. She felt an electric shiver when he spoke her name, but remained perfectly still. Without otherwise moving, she opened her fingers to release her grip on her wand. Ron and Malfoy both lowered theirs, glaring at each other. She wondered what Malfoy had been about to cast on her. She had never seen him so consumed with rage.  
  
Snape’s voice came from behind her, “I believe that public dueling is expressly forbidden on school grounds. Twenty points from Gryffindor and ten from Slytherin, and then I want the lot of you back in your towers where you belong.”  
  
Ron sputtered in outrage, “But... why twenty from  _us!?_ ”  
  
Dangerously quiet, Snape said, “That’s ten for you and ten for Miss Granger, who as Head Girl should know better than to become involved in petty disputes of this nature.” The hairs on the back of her neck stood up; he was so close behind her that she could feel the air moving every time his robes shifted. In front of her, Ron flushed red again, but kept his mouth shut. It was clearly unfair that Gryffindor was being docked 10 additional points when Slytherin had an entire goon squad backing up Malfoy, but they expected this sort of thing from Snape. Hermione was glad to see that Ron knew better than to protest.   
  
“On your way, all of you. No--Miss Granger, a moment, if you please.” Malfoy and the Slytherins were already retreating, smirking to each other. Hermione could feel Snape looming just over her shoulder. She wondered if he knew how uncomfortable he was making her.  _Likely yes, and no doubt he’s enjoying every second of it._  With deep resentment, she considered that if Ron hadn’t stopped her to ask about the damned Yule Ball, she’d have been halfway back to Gryffindor Tower by now.  
  
Ron clearly didn’t want to leave her; he stopped and gave her a questioning look. Hermione shook her head. “I’ll catch up later, Ron; no worries.” He hesitated, shooting a baleful glare at the dark figure standing behind her, but finally trudged off down the hallway.   
  
Leaving Hermione alone with her Potions professor.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione wondered how much of the altercation Professor Snape had seen before intervening. She braced herself for a reprimand; instead he raised an imperious eyebrow and said, “Miss Granger, you will accompany me to the lab.”  
  
“Sir?” she asked. She wasn’t ready for Occlumency practice again, not so soon after yesterday. She needed to sort through her conflicted, jumbled feelings about the previous few days; and a day or two away from the source of her difficulties, currently striding into the Potions classroom ahead of her. She needed time away from his mockery and his needling. Time away from having him inside her mind. Time to simply think.  
  
Snape stopped at the door and looked back at her impatiently. “ _Now_ , Miss Granger.”   
  
Well, she wouldn’t be getting it today; that much was clear.  _Pull yourself together, Hermione. You can do this._

_-~-~-_

Inside the Potions classroom, she began to ask him, “Professor, is this...” but he cut her off abruptly.  
  
“Miss Granger. Your research proposal. Have you shared it with anyone else?”  
  
She looked at him stupidly; her research proposal? She hadn’t expected him to have even read it yet. He stared back, waiting for an answer. She cast her mind back through the work she’d done;  _had_  she told anyone else? She’d mentioned to Ron and Harry that she was working on an extracurricular project, but she didn’t think she’d even mentioned that it was potion-related, much less any specifics.  
  
“Uh... no, sir. Just you.”  
  
His eyes narrowed. “Think  _hard_ , Miss Granger. Did you share it with  _anyone at all_? Mention it to a friend? Ask another professor for assistance?”  
  
His intent stare made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She had a sudden wild urge to hide behind one of the tables.   
  
“Professor Snape, I’m sure. I worked on it alone and didn’t get help from anyone. I only made two copies of it; Bellatrix Lestrange threw the first one into your f-fire…” She faltered briefly, thinking about the circumstances surrounding that incident. “…And the second one has been in my room since I finished it. I haven’t told anyone. But... it’s just some preliminary ideas I had about potion enhancement. Why are you--”  
  
Snape interrupted her again. “Miss Granger, do you recall the part of your proposal regarding a suspension charm? One, I believe, of your own device?”  
  
Hermione felt as though her head were whirling. Why was he bringing that up?  
  
“Yes, sir, but that was just a footnote. I nearly didn’t bother to mention it. It’s... it’s just a helpful little tool I came up with. You know, to save myself from having to constantly stir during certain parts of the potion preparation.”  
  
Silence stretched between them. And then under his breath, he said, “A helpful little tool. You really have  _no_  idea.”  
  
“I... sir? I don’t understand.”  
  
“Clearly not. Come with me, Miss Granger.” In a swirl of robes, he turned and disappeared into the classroom laboratory. Biting her lip, she followed him. It appeared this was not to be an Occlumency lesson. Or a reprimand for her behavior in the hallway earlier, which if she were to be honest with herself, she deserved. What  _had_  she been thinking, prodding at Malfoy that way? He’d been stretched out like piano wire for weeks now. She was lucky not to be in the infirmary.  _Or worse_ , she thought; but surely he wouldn’t have unleashed an Unforgivable on her right in the middle of Hogwarts.   
  
 _Why not? His Head of House certainly had no trouble doing so_ , she thought, but immediately scolded herself for being unfair.  _You did_  tell  _him to do it_.   
  
The laboratory had been cleared of the day’s experiments and paraphernalia. All of the tables were clean and uncluttered, save for the one in the middle of the room. On the bare wooden tabletop, there rested a small glass phial filled with a clear liquid. It looked like water, though Hermione had learned never to make assumptions in Potions class.   
  
Snape faced her across the table, his hands clasped behind his back, never shifting his gaze from her face. Hermione felt a momentary disquiet at being alone with him, but her mounting academic interest in the situation soon took over. She couldn't imagine what on earth could possibly have Snape--a Potions master, for Merlin’s sake--so worked up over a little footnote in a student’s research proposal.  
  
“Your suspension charm, Miss Granger. Tell me about it.”  
  
She was wary of his motives. This was uncomfortably close to being put on the spot in his classroom. Yet his tone held no sarcasm or mocking, and answering questions in class was a role she slipped into easily and comfortably. Staring at the glass phial, she said, “Well, preparing my range-increasing potion required several different mixtures to be stirred simultaneously. It occurred to me that it might be easier if I simply suspended the particles in solution, so I devised a little suspension charm to do it. I tested it several times and found it to be quite effective. Once you’ve combined substances with the suspension charm, they'll stay together, perfectly mixed, until you reverse the charm. Or forever, I suppose, if you never do. It’s really very handy...”  
  
“That is sufficient, Miss Granger. You would do well to learn to answer questions succinctly and without a surfeit of detail.” Her cheeks reddened again; how was he able to so constantly and effectively wrong-foot her?  
  
He continued, “Now. What would happen if you used this suspension charm on particles that were so small they could not be detected with the naked eye?”  
  
She frowned. “Well, assuming that you’re referring to a microscopic scale...” She broke off and said, “I’m sorry, that’s a Muggle term; I meant--”  
  
Drily, he said, “I am familiar. Continue.”  
  
“Er... yes, well, if the particles were that small, then the solution would appear identical to the base liquid of the suspension. So, for example, if they were mixed into water, it would look like...water...” She trailed off, looking at the innocuous little phial of liquid in the center of the table.  
  
“Indeed. A further question: What if the...  _microscopic_  particles were toxic in nature?”  
  
“Obviously you’d have a poison, but of course any standard poison detection spell would... oh... oh, my God.”  
  
She braced her hands on the edge of the table for support; the blood had run out of her head and she felt faint. Potions preparation was an incredibly common skill in the world of magic and she herself had wondered, when she first came to Hogwarts, what stopped everyone from constantly poisoning all of their enemies. It would be easy enough to prepare a toxic potion and disguise it as something else--the victim’s tea, for example, as Bellatrix Lestrange had proved with her Lumia potion. But of course Lumia wasn’t a toxic poison; if it had been, the standard poison-detection charm incorporated into every mug, cup, bowl, and other serving dish would have neutralized it. Nobody would even think of buying dishes without such a charm; and so the idea of poisoning someone else was... well, quite literally unthinkable. It wouldn’t even occur to someone to try, because it would be completely pointless. Completely impossible.   
  
Except that she’d just come up with a way to make it possible. Her knees felt watery and weak.  
  
Snape waited with a look of grim satisfaction.  
  
“Continue, Miss Granger.”  
  
Still leaning hard against the table, she drew a deep breath and said, “ _Normally_  toxic particles would be detected by a poison detection spell, but in this case, the charm would have encased each of the particles in its own tiny little bubble of magic. The poison would be... would be...”  
  
“Totally undetectable,” he said. “ _Full_  marks, Miss Granger.”  
  
She looked at him helplessly, still unable to tell whether he was angry, or pleased, or... something else. His face was calm, composed, just as though he were instructing her in a standard potion in his classroom.  _Classroom, yes; standard, no_ , she thought, and had to stifle a sudden near-hysterical giggle. Snape took no notice.   
  
“Let us continue with this... thought experiment," he said, the words unrolling like a bolt of fine satin. "What if the substance weren’t toxic at all? What if, instead, it were... explosive?”  
  
“I don’t understand, sir.”  
  
“Do you know what these are?” He withdrew a small pouch from inside his robes and opened it, shaking out a handful of glittering, iridescent wafers, glinting red and gold in the light.   
  
“Professor, are those... firedrake scales? But, those are impossible to... where did you even...”  
  
Ignoring her unfinished questions, he said, “Well done, Miss Granger. Now tell me their properties.”  
  
She frowned again. “Well, they’re not very useful in potions because as soon as you cast any sort of magic on them, they explode.”  
  
“Exactly. Now, outline for me, if you will, what would happen if you were to use your  _helpful_  little suspension charm on firedrake scales.”  
  
“They’d explo--" but she cut herself off, her brow wrinkled in thought. "Wait. No, they wouldn't. The charm encases the suspended particles in a bubble of magic; it doesn’t actually use magic on them. So you could easily suspend them in liquid that way, and then if you wanted, you could reduce the little magic bubbles down in size to the microscopic level. The firedrake scales would be unaffected by magic; they’d only be along for the ride. At least, I think that’s how it would work.” Her face was animated with the challenge of solving an interesting puzzle.  
  
“ _Very_  good, Miss Granger.” His voice had grown softer, quieter; his stare never wavered. “What would happen... if you administered this suspension to a person?”  
  
She thought for a moment. “Well, nothing; the suspension would be inert in their body, except that... except...” Her eyes widened in horror.  
  
“Go on, please.”  
  
In a whisper, she said, “Except that the tiny little firedrake particles would travel throughout every part of their body, lodge in every cell, waiting there forever, totally harmless, until... until...”  
  
“Say it.”  
  
She had trouble drawing breath; her chest felt as though there were a heavy weight sitting on it.  _What had she done?_  “Until someone ends the spell, and then... then...”  
  
Snape pointed his wand at the little phial of water in the center of the table and said, “ _Finite Incantatem_.” The phial exploded outwards in a gout of flame, sending a column of water into the air and glass shards flying in every direction. Hermione shrieked and ducked, protecting her head with her hands, but Snape arrested the shards, holding them motionless in the air before letting them harmlessly drop to the floor.  
  
“And then,” he said, “the scales come into contact with magic, with... predictable results.”   
  
Hermione straightened up from her defensive crouch. She folded her arms tightly against her body to stop her hands from uncontrollably shaking. “Every cell in the person’s body would simultaneously explode.”  
  
“Quite. I believe the effect would be rather... what’s the Muggle term?  _Pyrotechnic_.”  
  
Her face was white. “I didn’t know... I didn’t mean...”  
  
“Miss Granger, you have created a weapon."  
  
"Sir, I didn't mean to, I swear, I just…"  
  
He ignored this. "A weapon that I intend to use.”  
  
The words she'd been about to speak died on her lips. Snape watched and waited as realization dawned on her face.  _Bright girl_.   
  
Fixing her with an even stare, he said, “You will tell no-one about any of this.”  
  
“No, sir,” she managed unsteadily.  
  
“Not the Order. Not your friends. Not anyone. Trust me, if this information is disseminated at large, it  _will be used_ , and there will be no stopping it.”  
  
“Yes, Professor,” she said, and then hesitated. “Professor Snape, I have to ask... why did you tell me? Why not just use it yourself?”  
  
“For two reasons, Miss Granger. First, I could not take the chance that you would tell some...  _friend_  about your clever little discovery. Your ignorance of its implications was dangerous.” He noted her cheeks redden and felt gratified.  _Yes, even brilliant H. Granger misses the obvious sometimes._    
  
“Second, and more to the point, every day that passes increases the likelihood that I will not survive one of my encounters with the Dark Lord.” Her eyes widened. In pleasure, perhaps; he imagined that she savored the thought of his death. He wondered if she fantasized about it.   
  
 _Enough self-indulgence._    
  
“If I do not, someone else will have to cast Finite Incantatem in his presence. That person will have to be you.”  
  
" _What?_ "  
  
He enjoyed her shocked expression.  _Weren’t expecting that, were you?_    
  
"Who would you suggest, then?" His eyes glinted in challenge. "What member of the Order would you trust with this knowledge? Who would you trust implicitly not to tell? Who would you trust not to  _use_  it?"  
  
She stared at him in silence.  
  
"Precisely."  
  
He had considered this at length the night before. He would be damned if he let any other human being lay eyes on the girl’s poisoning charm--for that’s really what it was--and it would be stupid not to have a backup plan. He was mildly surprised every time he managed to leave Voldemort’s presence still breathing. It would be a waste to go to the trouble of brewing and administering the firedrake potion only to be unable to activate the fucking thing. So Granger would be his backup plan.   
  
He’d asked himself whether she were trustworthy for something of this magnitude; whether she could be relied on to carry out the task if need be. He thought about how she'd demanded that he cast an Unforgivable on her, and how she'd held herself in perfect stillness while she waited for him to do it. He thought about how she'd picked herself up afterward and limped to the door, broken and bruised, refusing any help. He thought about how she'd suffered through his excoriation in the classroom. And through all of this, she had told no-one. She had suffered alone in her misery.   
  
Yes, he thought that she would prove sufficient to the task. If necessary.  
  
"But Professor Snape, why not simply poison Lor... him. Poison him. Surely that would be easier?"  
  
He lifted an eyebrow. "Your definition of the word 'easy' is rather different from mine, apparently. But you are correct. There are poisons that would be simpler and less time-consuming than the firedrake potion. Tell me why we are using the firedrake scales in your suspension charm instead."  
  
She stifled the urge to point out that she was the one who had asked him. Fine, she could work this out. Her eyes unfocused as she cast her mind through the various properties and characteristics of firedrake scales.  _What did I miss?_    
  
With the part of her mind not otherwise preoccupied, she noted that Snape's attitude was different from his usual classroom demeanor. In the classroom, he took delight in publicly humiliating her; he relished her failures. But not now, not here. Now he merely waited for her answer with an unreadable expression on his face. And then she blinked, and realized that it wasn't unreadable at all. She just hadn't recognized it, never having seen it from him before:  _He is confident in me._    
  
Shortly after that, another realization struck her, and her cheeks reddened slightly.  
  
"I am an idiot."  
  
Snape's eyebrow lifted even higher, and he murmured, "Oh?"  
  
She shot him an accusing glance. "You could have just told me, you know."  
  
"Your assessment is, as usual, correct, Miss Granger. But please, elaborate."  
  
She sighed, and recited out of the fourth-year Potions textbook-- _how_  could she have forgotten this?: "There is no known magical poison that has proven effective on incorporeal persons."  
  
"Indeed, Miss Granger."  
  
"Although usually that's assumed to refer to ghosts, and not... whatever Lor... You-Know-Who is."  
  
Snape inclined his head slightly, the most assent she'd likely get from him on this subject, and said, "The point remains, he is at least semi-incorporeal."  
  
"But firedrake scales will work? You can't know that. Have you considered using a Muggle poison? Something non-magical?"   
  
Snape ground his teeth. He wasn't sure what irritated him more; her questions, or the fact that she had a point.   
  
"I will admit that I am not... entirely sure that the firedrake scales will kill him. But I believe that the physical effect of the explosion will at least harm him, yes. His body may be only semi-corporeal, but he still requires it in order to live and function. And there are no Muggle poisons that would be both undetectable and instantaneously fatal. Yes, I've checked," he finished, forestalling the obvious follow-up question.  
  
She opened her mouth anyway, but before she could launch into what would undoubtedly be an interminable series of ideas he'd already considered and dismissed, he cut her off.  
  
“Miss Granger, I think you will agree that this means the need for you to be able to effectively use Occlumency is somewhat more... urgent, shall we say.”  
  
If Voldemort--or any other Death Eater, for that matter--saw into her mind in its current unprotected state, they’d be fucked; no two ways around it. He could see in her eyes that she knew he was right.  
  
Her voice was even and level: “Yes, sir. When?” Her mouth tightened a fraction as she braced herself against the possibility that he would want to begin immediately.  
  
“My next lesson with you will have to wait. I have an... appointment, this Friday evening, and will need to spend what little spare time I have beforehand brewing a sufficient quantity of potion.”   
  
Her eyes widened a little, but she said nothing. Snape wondered with irritation exactly how she'd thought they were going to get the potion to Voldemort. Obviously he'd have to take it there himself. This hardly warranted surprise, he thought.  
  
Though he had barely enough time. He was to report to Voldemort on Friday about his progress on the restoration potion. If the firedrake potion was ready by then, he would easily be able to pass it off instead.   
  
This potion, unfortunately, was more difficult and time-consuming to brew than most. The firedrake scales were slow to shrink, and required constant observation to keep the magic field around them from inadvertently causing an early detonation. The demonstration phial he’d made up had incorporated only a single firedrake scale and had taken most of a night. He had no time to spare if he wanted to have enough for Lord Voldemort in three days' time.  
  
Granger stood waiting for instructions.  _Always a good student_ , he thought blackly.  
  
“In the meantime," he told her, "you will practice on your own. Part of successful Occlumency, as you may have heard from your friend  _Potter_ , is being able to completely clear your mind of thoughts and distractions."  
  
He could not keep the loathing out of his voice when he mentioned the boy's name. Teaching Occlumency to Potter had been a complete fucking nightmare and he didn't enjoy thinking about it. He composed himself and went on, "You have discovered that you can overpower the Legilimens with brute emotional force. This is crude and unsubtle and will therefore ultimately prove ineffective. Clearing your mind perfectly is the first step towards true Occlumency."  
  
Her eyes were fixed on him; she was absorbing everything he said, as he'd seen her do so many times in his classroom.  
  
He said, "When we next meet, I will enter your mind. You will keep it completely blank, clear from all thoughts. This is a skill that you can learn with practice.” He stopped, then said, “Or at least it is a skill that  _some_  can learn.”   
  
“I... think I can do that, Professor.”  
  
“See that you can,” he said sharply. “You will be here Saturday at 7 o’clock exactly. I expect you to be ready.”   
  
It occurred to him that she might have to cancel evening plans for their lesson… perhaps a snogging session with Weasley. He thought of the memory she'd shown him, thought of how Weasley had humiliated himself at the end of their last evening together. But that was of no consequence. It was nothing to him if she wanted to use her talents-- _her body_ \--on some puling little twit. Hardly any of his concern. And hardly any of his concern if she’d have to cancel such an engagement in order to learn how to keep the Dark fucking Lord out of her head.   
  
With a scowl, he said, “Dismissed, Granger. There’s no need to stand there like a sheep chewing its cud.”  
  
Her cheeks colored and her eyes flashed. She said, “Sir,” nodded to him with a jerk, and left without saying anything further, closing the classroom door behind her a little more loudly than usual.  
  
Snape expelled a long breath. He wondered whether he were trying to make her hate him. But he dismissed the thought as nothing more than sentimental rubbish. He was above that sort of thing.   
  
And at any rate, he certainly didn't have to try.


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione arrived in the Gryffindor Common Room shaken by what she'd just learned from Professor Snape. Not to mention his treatment of her, which had left her unsettled and confused. In the lab just now, he'd treated her more like a peer than a student. He'd treated her as though he respected her talents and abilities. Why then, in the classroom, did he take such obvious delight in debasing and humiliating her?  
  
 _Maybe he's confused too_ , she thought, and then laughed to herself. The thought of Professor Snape unsure or confused was... not worth considering. No, he always knew exactly what he was doing.   
  
"Hey, 'Mione." She looked up, startled out of her reverie. It was Ron; he'd been waiting for her in the Common Room. She shouldn't have been surprised. The Ball was only a week away, and she could hardly expect Ron to wait much longer for her. He looked expectant, almost eager. Her shoulders sagged, just a little, with the heavy realization that she was going to agree to go to the Ball with him.   
  
 _Who else am I going to go with?_  It was a wearying thought. She'd rather not go at all. She wanted to stay in her room with the door closed and warded, and have a cup of tea and sort things out for herself. If she thought for a second that she could get away with not going, she would. But she couldn't, not without her friends prying and wanting to know what was wrong, what they could do to help, why she wasn't  _herself_ … as though she were ever the type of person to want to go to a bloody Yule Ball in the first place. Even in a normal year, which this decidedly was not, she'd rather be doing almost anything else—research, or reading a book, or even just taking a  _bath_.   
  
Even taking lessons from Snape would be better than the Ball... although that was a dangerous train of thought. She thought of Snape's instructions earlier in the evening, and wondered if Occlumency would help her suppress unwanted thoughts.  _Ironic_ , she thought,  _if learning Occlumency from Snape is what helps me stop thinking about Snape_. She smiled faintly to herself, and then snapped back to reality again as Ron, still looking at her anxiously, asked, "Wotcha smilin' at?"  
  
"You," she said, directing her smile at him. He lit up like a firework.  _Oh, Ron._  
  
"What did the Bat want with you? He's been a right prat lately, hasn't he?"  
  
"It's Professor Snape, Ron. Not 'the Bat'."  
  
He rolled his eyes. "Whatever, 'Mione. He's been an total prick lately. Especially to you. Don't even tell me you haven't noticed."  
  
She sighed. "No, I've noticed. Professor Snape has seemed... more irritable than usual, yes."  
  
Ron grunted in satisfaction. "Hah. Told you."  
  
"Ron, you didn't  _have_  to tell me. I was there, remember?"  
  
He shrugged. "I'm just saying, he's got it in for you, Hermione. What  _did_  he want with you earlier, anyway?" With a sudden flash of anxiety in his eyes, he said, "You didn't get in trouble because of me and Malfoy, did you?"  
  
With everything that had happened since, she had almost forgotten the altercation with Malfoy in the hallway. One more thing to worry about.  
  
"Oh, no, he barely even mentioned that. It was..." She hesitated, realizing she hadn't taken the time to come up with a cover story yet. "It was some research stuff. About a project I'm thinking of doing."  
  
Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You've got to be kidding me. You're volunteering to take on  _more_  work that means having to hang around  _him_?"  
  
Hermione spun to face her friend. "Ron. Do you even  _know_  me? We've been friends for seven years, for Merlin's sake! When have you ever known me to turn down an extra-credit opportunity?  _I enjoy this sort of thing._  Honestly! And… and Professor Snape isn't that bad. He's a decent person. He's just... he's just... _prickly!_ "  
  
Ron had taken several steps back from her, looking at her as though she were some sort of feral animal.   
  
"Hermione... are you all right?"  
  
She made a noise that was somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a scream and said, " _YES, RON, I'M JUST FINE_. Would I be going to the bloody Ball with you if I weren't?" She stalked off to the stairwell, leaving Ron behind her with a stunned grin spreading across his face. "You're going to the Ball with me?" he called after her, and didn't even appear to mind when she failed to answer.

-~-~-

After her relatively civil encounter with Snape in his laboratory, Hermione had hopes that Potions class would return to normal: that is, tolerable, if not exactly pleasant. Professor Snape had a razor tongue, and was prone to taking points from Gryffindor at the slightest provocation, but he was a good instructor underneath all of that. Strict and hard, yes; but good. Hermione had always considered him one of the better professors at Hogwarts, though she kept that opinion to herself. Her friends thought she was odd enough already. 

  
As the week progressed, though, it was painfully evident that her hopes had proved unfounded. Something cold and vindictive seemed to have awakened in Snape, and House Gryffindor bore the brunt of it, Hermione in particular. She lost track of how many points he'd taken from Gryffindor, some for infractions so slight they may as well have been imaginary.   
  
It came to a head when Snape took five points from Neville for neglecting to correctly place his lacewings on the left-hand side of his cauldron instead of the right-hand side. Hermione surreptitiously glanced at the Slytherins' table to see how their cauldrons were arranged, and Snape then took five additional points from Gryffindor.  
  
"For questioning a professor's authority, Miss Granger," he said, staring down his nose at her. Without thinking, she lifted a challenging eyebrow. His nostrils flared slightly, and she knew instantly that it had been a mistake, and broke eye contact. It was too late; he was already gliding towards her. The rest of her classmates went silent, no doubt hoping to avoid attracting attention. But Hermione knew that his attention was focused on her. Indeed, he stopped directly in front of her, glaring at her over her cauldron.  
  
Being this close to him made her nerves scream. She felt a desperate fluttering in her belly, as though something were writhing there, trying to escape. Memories flooded unbidden into her mind—his twisted, cruel sneer as he cast Cruciatus; his hands gracefully shaking a bag of firedrake scales onto the table in front of her; his eyes boring into her just before he used Legilimency… and oh, yes, his moans as she knelt before him and took his cock into her mouth.   
  
 _No. I will not think about that. I will master this. Blank. My mind will be completely blank._    
  
Occlumency. She'd been practicing, just as instructed. And just as instructed, she made her mind into a blank, featureless space, dissolving all of those unwanted images into diaphanous nothing.   
The room was so silent that she could hear Neville's breathing from several feet away.   
  
"Miss...  _Granger_ ," Snape said; in other circumstances his voice would have sounded almost sensual. "You appear to have something to say. Would you care to share it with us? I, for one, am  _dying_  to know what brilliant insight you surely must have had."  
  
 _Blank. I am blank. My mind is clear._  
  
She looked at Snape with eyes made of nothing, a mind made of nothing. "No, Professor. I have nothing to say."  
  
A startled expression passed over his features for a mere instant, like the shadow of a cloud traveling over a hillside.   
  
"I see," he breathed. "Well, see if you can keep it that way; it's a refreshing change from your usual." The Slytherins sniggered at this, but Snape ignored them. As did Hermione, although several of the other Gryffindors, including Ron and Harry, looked murderous. Harry in particular looked completely enraged; Hermione saw him start to open his mouth to say something to Snape's receding back, but she silently shook her head at him and mouthed,  _Not now_. Then Snape turned back around to face the class, and she quickly looked back down at her work. It wouldn't do to get caught trading meaningful glances with Snape's other favorite student.  
  
Hermione wished she knew why Snape kept doing this to her. She would have been more than content to simply ignore him in class, to try to forget what had happened between them and move on, but he was making it impossible. Every time she turned around in Potions class, it seemed he was there, sneering or making a cutting remark, excoriating and humiliating her over and over again in front of the other students.   
  
Malfoy in particular seemed to be enjoying her torment; he watched hungrily every time Snape turned his attention to Hermione. She supposed that since Malfoy couldn't get at her himself, he was enjoying by proxy watching his Head of House do it instead. She'd taken to having Harry or Ron escort her when possible, any time she left the safe environs of Gryffindor Tower. Just for a while; just for safety. She remembered the naked rage in Malfoy's eyes while he held his wand on her, and felt it best not to take any chances.  
  
She didn't explain to Harry or Ron that she'd had more than her fill of taking unnecessary chances recently.  
  
In the hallway after class that day, Hermione wouldn't let either of her friends say anything until they were well clear of the dungeons. She'd learned  _that_  lesson as well. But as soon as they were safely away, Ron and Harry both turned to her and simultaneously began talking; all she could make out were angry snippets: "What is wrong with him?" "You should go to Dumbledore!" "It's totally unfair!"  
  
"One at a time,  _please_ ," she said, smiling at them both indulgently. Ron and Harry shared a glance, and then by unspoken agreement, Harry went first.  
  
"Hermione, what's going on with Snape? He's been all over you, the entire week! It's outrageous, honestly. You should have let me say something today."  
  
She shook her head. "No. Think, Harry. You tell Snape he's being unfair… and then what? He sees the error of his ways and apologizes to all of us and gives fifty points to Gryffindor? I mean, what do you really think would happen?"  
  
Harry sighed. "I know. It's Snape. You can't reason with him. But seriously, he's got it in for you, Hermione. Everyone can see it. Did you...  _do_  something?"  
  
She jerked her head towards him, her eyebrows high in surprise, and said, "What?  _Do_  something? What are you talking about? Of course not! What would I have done?"  
  
Ron and Harry exchanged another glance. Ron shrugged as though to say,  _I've got no idea, you better take this one, mate._  
  
Harry said, "Er... I don't know, Hermione. That's why I asked. I just thought maybe... I don't know, maybe you criticized his robes or something."  
  
Hermione squeezed her eyes closed for a second, and for a moment both boys thought she was about to cry, but then they saw that she was trying to stifle a laugh.  
  
"Harry. The man has worn the exact same clothing every single day of our entire seven years at Hogwarts. Why would I be  _criticizing his robes_?"  
  
She erupted into a peal of laughter, and Ron snorted in spite of himself. "She's got a point there, mate."  
  
Harry looked outraged. "What?! It's not that stupid an idea."  
  
Hermione and Ron were lost in laughter, Hermione actually doubling over with it. Harry felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "All right... maybe a  _little_ stupid."  
  
After she was finished convulsing in giggles—it was one of those laughs that just kept going and going, and just when she thought it was about to die off, the whole thing struck her as funny and set her off again, with a snort of "Robes!"—Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and said, "You two have no idea how much I needed that. Honestly, you don't."  
  
Harry grinned at her. Ron punched her arm affectionately and said, "Well, you have looked pretty... uh..." and then he colored again, realizing that he would be unable to finish the sentence inoffensively.  
  
Hermione took mercy on him. "No, I know, Ron. It's just been... it's been a long week. That's all."  
  
"Yeah," he said, "but the good part is, it's almost over! Which reminds me, a lot of us are going to Hogsmeade Saturday afternoon to let off some steam. Want to come?"  
  
The idea of sitting and enjoying butterbeers with friends was enticing; overwhelmingly enticing. She almost agreed without thinking, and then with a pang remembered that she had plans with Snape—if you could call them that—for Saturday evening. Even an early-afternoon trip to Hogsmeade would mean she'd likely have to leave early to get to the dungeons on time, and how would she explain  _that_  to her friends?   
  
She closed her eyes, suppressing a sigh, and reminding herself that it was hardly much of a sacrifice compared to what many others had done. But it  _felt_  like a lot: giving up a rare afternoon with friends in order to spend her evening in the dungeon with a Potions professor who apparently hated her. She found herself, not for the first time, wishing that she could hate him in return. It should have been easy for her, considering what he'd put her through; what he continued to put her through daily. But when she tried to make herself angry at him, to make herself feel the same hatred towards him that he showed towards her, she found herself thinking instead about how he had respected her desire not to be Obliviated; the lengths he had gone to in order to hide her in his mind from Lord Voldemort; how he had taken the time to read her research paper even after a long and difficult Occlumency session.   
  
Those thoughts led her to other thoughts, of his hands in her hair, and his lean body pressed against hers... and that was a road she did not wish to go down. Not now; not ever. But she couldn't hate him, either.  
  
"Hermione?"  
  
She realized she'd been woolgathering while Ron waited for her answer. With a sigh, she said, "Oh, Ron. I wish I could. But I absolutely  _have_  to study."  
  
His face fell. "Is it that project you're doing for Snape?"  
  
Harry knit his brows. "You're doing a project for Snape?"  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
"You're not exactly doing a project for Snape?" He looked dubious.  
  
Hermione sighed again. "Look, it's complicated. I can tell you about it later if you like, but right now don't you want to eat? If you don't mind, I would rather talk about just about anything but Snape right now."  
  
With heartfelt agreement, Ron said, "Can't fault you there. I  _am_  pretty hungry now that you mention it..."  
  
The suggestion of food, as usual, proved to be more than sufficient distraction, and with no further discussion of dungeons, or research, or Potions professors, the three friends walked together to the Great Hall, where dinner waited.

-~-~-

An hour before bed, Hermione sat cross-legged in her room on her bed, preparing for Occlumency practice. She'd intended to do it anyway—what was it, after all, but homework?—but she felt it might prove particularly helpful in Potions the next day. It would be Friday, the day of Snape's "appointment". She didn't know how much, if any, of his behavior towards her was the result of the extreme pressure he was under to finish the potion in time. But under the circumstances, she felt that practicing clearing her mind might be a good idea. It had helped her in the Potions classroom once already, and that was after barely practicing at all.

  
She took a deep breath and imagined dissolving all of her thoughts, one by one, into a fine white mist. In her mind's eye, she focused on that mist, seeing it as a seamless expanse of white, allowing it to fill her field of vision. At first she could only maintain this state for a second or two without some new thought popping into her head—some thought of Ron and Harry, or one of her other classes, or most frequently of Snape himself. But each time she lost her concentration, she started again, breathing in deeply and ridding herself of the intruding images. Each thought dissolved in turn into white mist, until once again there was nothing in her mind's eye but a featureless haze.   
  
She practiced with her eyes open, feeling instinctively that she must be able to clear her mind completely even while receiving visual stimulus. She would hardly have the luxury of closing her eyes tightly if Lord Voldemort were trying to invade her mind. Or if Professor Snape was, for that matter.  
  
 _No. No Lord Voldemort. No Professor Snape. Blank. Nothing. Empty._  
  
She began again. By the end of the hour, she could maintain ten full seconds of nothingness in her mind before distractions crept in. Satisfied with this progress, she unwound her limbs and rose from the bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so. Ron and Harry were right; there were dark circles under her eyes. Her sleep had been patchy and unrestful this week. She'd done some reading in the library and found that this was a known side-effect of Cruciatus.   
  
Snape had told her that he had experienced the curse himself, so presumably he had gone through it as well.  _Nice of him to tell me about it_ , she thought. But she hadn't exactly given him much opportunity. She'd stumbled out of his office as soon as she was able to pick herself up from the floor. Snape had offered his hand in assistance, and she'd refused him, unable to bear touching him or looking at him in that moment.  _I should thank him for that kindness_ , she thought, but on further reflection could hardly imagine a circumstance in which she could bring the topic up. Both of them had managed to avoid the subject entirely on all of their subsequent meetings, except for when he had offered to Obliviate it from her mind.  _And you refused him. So really, this is all your fault._  
  
She inspected herself critically in the mirror. Frizzy, out-of-control hair; dark circles under her eyes; pale complexion; thin lips; slim, boyish hips; and small breasts. She wasn't generally too concerned with her appearance, but she did sometimes wonder what Ron managed to see in her. It was hardly a surprise that Snape hated the thought of having been made to touch her; and to have let her touch him in return.  
  
When she finally turned the lights off and climbed underneath the bedcovers, she thought she'd practice Occlumency a few minutes more, and only made it through three iterations of the white mist before sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-~-~-

Several stories below, in his private laboratory, Snape briefly considered, and then dismissed, the possibility of sleep.  _There'll be time to sleep when I'm dead_ , he thought.  _Which may be sooner rather than later._  He knew that he was running on the bare ragged edge of his mental and physical capacity. He knew that being tired—exhausted, to be accurate—left him vulnerable; that if he allowed fatigue to compromise his mental discipline, he would endanger the entire plan. But there was simply not enough time.   
  
Snape had calculated and re-calculated, filling pages with inky scrawls of numbers and equations, wanting to be absolutely sure of the amounts and quantities necessary, finally coming up with an answer: Four weeks. Voldemort would need to take the potion daily for four weeks in order for it to… have the desired effect. It would have taken far less time if administered to any normal wizard—a matter of days only, or perhaps even at the first dose—but Voldemort's semi-corporeal nature complicated matters considerably. The arithmancy had been tricky and time-consuming. But there was no question of the result.  
  
Four weeks.  
  
And so he had no time to spare. Four weeks of waiting. Four weeks of having to keep this information from the rest of the Order as well as from Lord Voldemort. He knew himself to be capable, but was Granger? He'd watched her carefully when he told her about his plan, and had seen in her eyes that she intended to keep the secret. But he wondered how long she'd be able to hide it from her friends, her confidantes; Potter and Weasley, Dumbledore and McGonagall. These were people she relied on and trusted. His exact opposites. And yet he was the one asking—demanding—that she bear this secret. He'd half-expected her to have told Dumbledore already; but the lack of summons to the Headmaster's office told him that as yet she had not.   
  
Surprising.  
  
But that was still four weeks of hiding the plan from the Dark Lord himself; time during which he would continue to marshal his forces and grow in power. Even without the restoration potion, Voldemort was clearly drawing strength and power from somewhere. Every time Snape saw him, he looked more... solid.   
  
He wondered sourly how long it would be before Voldemort sent more fucking Death Eaters to rifle through his personal effects. He'd like it if they tried; he'd added some particularly nasty wards to his private office, quarters, and storeroom. Anyone who attempted to enter them without permission would quickly find herself—or himself, although Snape had admittedly designed the wards while thinking of Bellatrix—in the possession of somewhat fewer extremities than they had started with. Wards of that nature were not, strictly speaking, permitted on Hogwarts grounds, but he had no plans to ask for permission. And any students that were stupid enough to snoop around his private quarters would get what they deserved.   
  
 _Like Granger? Did she get what she deserved?_    
  
He dismissed this thought. Discipline. Concentration. A month was a long time to keep a secret like this, particularly when those on both sides of the conflict were filled with suspicion and distrust. There was no time to waste. The potion would take most of the night and into the morning before it was completely finished, and it had to be finished before tomorrow. He would entertain no alternative.  
  
Snape stared at a swirling flask of firedrake scales, glittering red and gold as they slowly, painfully slowly, diminished in size. No; there would be no sleep this evening. He would make do without, as he had done so many times before.


	12. Chapter 12

On the way to the Potions classroom the next day, Hermione was only vaguely aware of Ron and Harry chattering next to her. She wondered whether Snape would take his frustrations out on her again—whether that's even what he was doing. She'd tried and failed to understand his animosity towards her. His class was simply a burden she had to bear for now.  
  
"...I'm going to say something, see if I don't!" Ron was saying, face set like a bulldog.  
  
Harry said, "Come on, Ron, it's just Snape. We're all used to it by now. And anyway, everyone is under stress with the war going on."  
  
"I don't care, Harry! He's taking it out on Hermione specifically! It's not right."  
  
"Ron," she said, paying attention at last, "you don't need to do that. I can handle it. It's really not a big deal." A show of testosterone from Ron was the absolute last thing she needed.  
  
"Come on, 'Mione, you need someone to stand up for you! He's been after you all week! I can take him on. Don't worry about me." He set his jaw in what he probably thought was an aggressive jut, and reached out a protective arm to her. Even Harry rolled his eyes at this, and Hermione pressed her lips together, trying to decide whether to respond.  
  
With a glance at Hermione, Harry said, "Ron, just leave it. It's not worth it. Today will probably be better anyway. Come on, mate."  
  
Ron flushed angrily and said, "No,  _you_  come on!"  
  
Hermione interjected with, "Ron, that doesn't even make sense—" but he kept going, talking right over her.  
  
"'Mione, I'm not kidding! It's not right what he's doing to you and I'm going to say something! I'm going to!"  
  
She looked at him, red-faced and blustery, gesturing angrily, and felt as though she were seeing him for the first time.  _That's Ron_ , she thought.  _That's Ron that I've let kiss me. Ron who thinks he loves me. Ron who I'm supposed to love back. Ron who I'm supposed to want and desire. Ron who is trying to protect me from Snape.  
  
Ron who needs to understand certain things._  
  
He was still talking, and she turned on him. The expression on her face made Harry take a surprised step back, but Ron didn't notice, still lost in his braggadocio.  
  
"Ron," she said.  
  
"'Mione, someone needs to look out for you! I can do it, don't worry about me—"  
  
"Ron."  
  
The tenor of her voice finally caught his attention, and he stopped in the middle of his sentence, looking at her warily.   
  
"First of all, Ronald Weasley, my name is  _Hermione_  and I'll thank you to use it."  
  
He opened his mouth like a cut fish, but this time she was the one to keep talking right over him.  
  
"Second, I do not need you to  _protect_  me. Not from Snape, not from anybody. I can handle myself just fine in  _Professor_  Snape's classroom and I don't need you running your mouth and costing us points and detentions and Merlin only knows what else, assuming that Snape is even in the mood to be difficult, which he _might not be_ , though I realize that must be hard for your little mind to comprehend."  
  
She stopped then, looking startled, as though she couldn't quite believe those words had come from her mouth.  
  
Ron, blinking, said, "'Mio... er, Hermione... are you sticking up for  _Snape?_ "  
  
She arched an eyebrow at him and said, "So that's what you're choosing to take away from this. Interesting." And then she turned her back on both of them and marched through the open door of the Potions classroom.  _Stupid boys._

-~-~-

For all of that, Potions went reasonably well. Snape seemed quiet and diminished, compared to his aggressive mockery from previous days.

  
He set the class to work on researching rare ingredients from their textbooks, and so there was no opportunity for smirking from Slytherins or bravado from Ron, which Hermione was quite glad of. The sounds of pages turning and quills scratching on parchment were soothing to her; reassuring, in a way.   
  
Occasionally as she worked, she sneaked a quick glance at Professor Snape. He looked... well, ragged was the best way to describe it. He was pale, his face drawn and tense. She could see his bloodshot eyes even from where she sat. She wondered when he'd last slept, and how he would manage that evening in front of Lord Voldemort. But surely there was nothing to worry about. Snape was practiced at this. Experienced. He knew how to protect his mind from Voldemort and had done so many times before. He'd do so again tonight. Surely.  
  
But she looked at him, and she wondered.   
  
At the end of class, she had risen to leave when she glanced at Snape one last time, and found that he was staring directly at her in turn. She could not read the expression in his eyes; they held no mockery or derision, but neither did they hold warmth. Their gaze locked for a moment; and then, without saying anything, he jerked his head almost imperceptibly in a curt nod, and turned away.   
  
 _Luck ride with you tonight, Professor_ , she thought to herself.  _Merlin knows you need it._


	13. Chapter 13

Snape heard the screams coming from inside Malfoy Manor almost before he had finished Apparating. Female screams, by the sound of it. Likely Muggle in origin. It would be a long night. But no matter. His mental defenses were in place, as always; strong, as always; impenetrable, as always. Tonight, no matter what else happened, the Dark Lord would begin taking his "restoration" potion. He could explore Snape's mind as much as he liked, and would find no information suggesting otherwise.  
  
With confidence he did not need to feign, Snape strode to the front entrance and rang the bell.   
  
A house elf, filthy and bruised, opened the door. Bowing and scraping—quite literally; the creature's fingernails were dragging on the floor—he granted Snape entrance, with a simpering whine of, "Welcome, Master Snape."   
  
Snape entered, surveying the main hall. The vast room was meant to intimidate visitors; the light fixtures bristled with glittering diamonds, and the walls were lined with mahogany-framed portraits of ancestral Malfoys. A mezzanine balcony circled the room, allowing anyone on the upper level to look down on those below, and the ceiling was painted in a realistic imitation of a skylight, complete with blue sky and clouds visible beyond. Several doors led from the hall, some into small antechambers, and some to other wings of the mansion. Snape saw no-one else present, but the sound of screaming was much closer here. He wondered whether the torture was occurring here in the main part of the house. It was not unknown for Lucius Malfoy to use every part of his home during Dark Revels. Snape hadn't been informed of any such plans for this evening, but Voldemort and his Death Eaters rarely needed much excuse to put on a Revel.  
  
Snape turned toward the door leading to the dungeons, but just then Lucius himself emerged from a nearby antechamber. The screaming became noticeably louder as the door opened, and then faded again as it closed. Snape wondered if Malfoy realized that there were several droplets of what appeared to be blood clinging to his fine blond hair. Or whether he would care, if he did.  
  
"Severus!" Malfoy said, "We've been expecting you!"  
  
Snape inclined his head in affirmation. "Lucius."  
  
"Pardon the, ah... racket," the blond man said with a smirk and a nod of his head towards the room he'd just left. "The Dark Lord wanted to… question some Muggle sympathizers, and he felt that tonight would be an excellent opportunity."  
  
"Ah," Snape said. "I had assumed it was Muggle screaming."  
  
Malfoy's grin widened predatorily. "Not tonight, my friend... not tonight. You're more than welcome to lend a hand in the, ah,  _questioning_ , if you're up for it afterward."  
  
Snape allowed a pleased expression to cross his face. "Indeed, that might prove restorative. But yes, later."  
  
"Of course. Our Lord is expecting you."  
  
Malfoy instructed the house elf to take Snape to the dungeons. Snape was well-familiar with the long corridors and winding staircases of Malfoy Manor and could easily have made his way there on his own, but he made no protest. Visitors customarily received an escort to Voldemort's throne room. The Dark Lord preferred it that way.  
  
At the entrance to the throne room, the elf bowed deeply and gestured for Snape to proceed inside. The room was cavernous, with stone walls and a dank, musty odor. Formerly it had been a dungeon, used by the Malfoys for tormenting prisoners and enemies; now it was Voldemort's temporary center of operations. His throne dominated one end of the room, floating just above the flagstone floor. Voldemort's half-formed body was barely visible in it, flickering and twisting in the dim light from the wall sconces. A few of his more sycophantic followers lounged in the padded chairs and couches nearby.  
  
The stone walls were studded with an assortment of chains, manacles, and stretching devices. Snape had assumed that Voldemort simply liked the sense of ambience these things lent to his throne room, but he saw now that they were indeed being put to use. He let his gaze travel over the woman against the far wall without stopping, looking at her only long enough to see that her body formed a perfect X-shape, stretched perfectly taut by manacles connecting her wrists and ankles to anchor points on the wall.  
  
At least he did not recognize this particular victim. That made it easier.  
  
As he approached Voldemort's throne, Snape heard the clank of chains behind him and realized that the woman was not quite  _perfectly_  taut yet. Of course. This was exactly the sort of thing Voldemort enjoyed. The chains had been charmed so that they gradually pulled tighter and tighter—one turn of the crank every few minutes or so, most likely. The woman had clearly been magically silenced; no person could withstand that sort of torment without crying out. If he were to look at her face, he'd undoubtedly see it contorted with agony and terror.  
  
But he would not look at her face. She was behind him. Out of his sight, and soon enough out of his mind.  
  
 _Discipline._  
  
He took one knee before Voldemort, bowing his head submissively. The Dark Lord liked to keep his supplicants waiting, kneeling uncomfortably on the damp flagstones. One more way for him to exert power over those he perceived as his inferiors.  
  
Snape waited, perfectly calm, perfectly still. After several long minutes, he heard the sibilant hiss of his own name.   
  
"Sseverus."  
  
Without lifting his head, he said, "My Lord."  
  
"You may risse, Sseverus."  
  
Snape rose gracefully to his feet, the long minutes spent kneeling on the hard stone having had no apparent effect. He clasped his hands loosely behind his back and stood with legs slightly apart.  
  
"My apologies, Sseverus, that you musst sshare my time thiss evening." Voldemort giggled, a sound that was soon echoed faintly by other Death Eaters, some sprawled on the couches, and some from behind Snape, all observing the victim's torments in private audience with the Dark Lord. Undoubtedly they were pleased with the honor.  
  
"Our... ssubject, was mosst recalcitrant earlier and refused to give up the namess of her... associates. Of course, sshe has since changed her mind, but I believe it will be... instructive for her to sspend ssome more time in contemplation before I grant her another audience. Don't you agree, Sseverus?"  
  
"Of course, my Lord," Snape murmured.  
  
"Now, Ssseverus. I believe you  _have_  ssomething for me?"  
  
Snape merely nodded in assent, and reached inside his cloak to withdraw a small phial of potion. The liquid inside shifted and shimmered, reddish-gold in the flickering light; the color was a last-minute touch he'd added in the early hours of that morning.  
  
Voldemort hissed, sucking his breath inward.  
  
"Is that  _it_? The restoration potion?"  
  
Snape nodded again. "Yes, my Lord. It is a tincture of firedrake scales, and I believe that when taken every day for the next four weeks, it will have the desired effect."  
  
Voldemort's reptilian eyes dilated, wide with excitement.  
  
"Give it to me, Sseverus!"  
  
The Potions master did as requested, stepping forward briefly to present the potion to the seated figure, who reached out to take it with scaly, talon-tipped fingers.  _Drink it_ , Snape thought.  _Drink it now. Drink it all._  
  
Voldemort tipped the phial back, and the scarlet-gold mixture disappeared down his throat. Snape could actually see it descending, with little gold flashes as Voldemort's half-transparent body shifted and turned. It was an unpleasant reminder that his potion was nothing more than an estimate, a guess; that Voldemort's condition might mean that the potion was too weak—or wouldn't work at all. But Snape did not permit that thought to escape the tightly-constructed walls of his mind.   
  
"Severuss, I sshall require more than thiss."  
  
"Of course, my Lord. I have begun the brewing process at Hogwarts already. You needn't worry about running out."  
  
"Excellent, Sseveruss. You have sserved me well today."  
  
Snape bowed his head. "It is my honor to do so, my Lord."  
  
He expected Voldemort to dismiss him, and so had an unpleasant jolt when instead he heard, "Now… tell me about the Granger girl."  
  
Images of Hermione flashed through Snape's mind: of her fighting off tears at the end of his class, of Draco Malfoy with his wand at her throat, of her shriek when he detonated the firedrake potion in front of her, of his impure and incessant dreams of the girl... but only for a single moment, and then it was all gone, hidden behind the impenetrable wall of Occlumency. What remained was nothing more than what he wanted Voldemort to see: a tediously annoying and bookish girl who had no idea whatsoever that she'd been Crucioed and then Obliviated by her Potions professor.  
  
"The Obliviation appears to have been completely successful, my Lord. She is behaving no differently than her usual...  _Mudblood_  self." His words dripped with scorn.  
  
"Yess... I ssee. Perhapss ssoon we sshall bring her in for.... interrogation. What do you think, Sseverus?" The chains on the wall behind him clanked loudly again, obscenely punctuating this question. Snape could feel Voldemort's presence inside his mind, invasive and searching. He was more than capable of continuing to Occlude, but it was taxing. So very taxing.  
  
 _The moments in which we define ourselves. Step carefully, Severus._  
  
"I think," he said, "that it is... premature, to bring in one of Potter's closest friends. The girl is not a member of the Order and will have very little information to give to us. But her capture will certainly attract the attention of the actual Order. Attention that perhaps it would be best to avoid... for now. But certainly the idea of putting the girl in her place holds merit, my Lord. I would enjoy seeing that very much."  
  
"Yess, I ssuspected as much. Your... analyssis matches my own. But resst assured, Sseverus: When the time comess, I will put you personally in charge of her torment."  
  
Snape bowed his head in seeming gratitude. "Thank you, my Lord. You are most kind."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
And then he waited for another long, excruciatingly long, moment—Voldemort often liked to cast Cruciatus on his followers just as they thought they were about to leave his presence unscathed—before the Dark Lord finally said, "You may leave."  
  
Snape bowed and turned to go. Behind him, Voldemort lazily pronounced, " _Finite Incantatem_ ," and the agonized, tortured screams from the chained woman became audible. At least that answered one question: Snape had been fairly certain that Finite Incantatem would need to be specifically directed at Voldemort in order to work, as opposed to simply being pronounced in his general vicinity. Now he was completely sure.   
  
Without looking back, Snape continued into the outer hall and then up the stairs to the main level of the house, not stopping until he had exited Malfoy Manor entirely.

-~-~-

On the wind-swept moor outside Hogwarts Castle, a gray-cloaked figure waited, nearly invisible in the weak light of the crescent moon. Hermione had been there for hours, still and silent, practicing Occlumency to pass the time. The night was damp and chill, but with her cloak wrapped tightly around her, it was tolerable. She was pressed against one of the stone outcroppings of the castle, letting its shadow help to conceal her from anyone who might have been watching the grounds. Unlikely though that would be on a night like tonight.

  
She was within sight of the Hogwarts gates, dark and abandoned at this hour. Most of the other students and staff were likely asleep.  _And so should you be_ , she told herself. But instead she waited in the cold moonlight, watching the road beyond the gates and practicing.   
  
 _White. Still. Nothing._  
  
It was well past midnight when she heard a distant crack, like a gunshot; the sound of someone Apparating. At once, she left the protection of the outcropping and began walking hurriedly—almost running, her cloak billowing behind her—down the grassy hill toward the gates, scanning the road beyond for what she knew to be there... and yes, there it was. A lone figure, making his way slowly toward the gates.   
  
She arrived first and waited for him, observing with a critical eye that he did not appear to be injured or limping. She had wondered what sort of condition his "appointment" would leave him in, but he seemed unharmed. Although he was moving so slowly. Uncharacteristically slowly, for a man she was more accustomed to seeing striding rapidly through the halls of Hogwarts.   
  
And then he looked up, and saw her.  
  
He said nothing until he was through the gates. With some considerable effort, he rasped out, "Granger. You shouldn't be here. Ten points from—"  
  
"Shut it," she said sharply. He lifted an eyebrow but otherwise did not react. Very uncharacteristic, she thought.  
  
"You'll have no House points from Gryffindor tonight," she said. "Save it for Potions class. I'm here because I thought..." She looked into his eyes; they were weary and bloodshot and there was no anger in them. Faint flutters of panic stirred inside her.  _He should be angry. That should have made him angry. That should have infuriated him._  
  
"...Because I thought you might need help," she finished. She was glad of the faint moonlight that did not afford him a chance to see that her cheeks had reddened slightly at this.  
  
"Help," he repeated, and made a sound between a bark and a laugh. "From you."  
  
"I'm the only one who's here, sir," she said, and just then his knees buckled. He would have pitched to the ground if Hermione hadn't grabbed him and caught him. He allowed her to do this, allowed her to drape his arm around her shoulder. She supported him, bearing half his weight.   
  
In a quiet voice, she asked, "What did he do to you, Professor?"  
  
He looked at her face, mere inches from his own, guarded and questioning. He laughed again, a humorless sound that took more energy than he'd thought he had.  
  
"Nothing. He did nothing, Miss Granger. This is what happens on a night when he does absolutely nothing at all."  
  
They continued on in silence. The mere act of walking—even half-supported by her—sapped Snape's reserves nearly to depletion. Talking was out of the question. Twice he tried to let go of her, to carry on by himself, but both times he stumbled and nearly fell. After the second time, she said quietly, "Please."   
  
He said nothing, but he allowed her to take his arm across her shoulders again, his body half-slumped against hers.  _She is stronger than I had imagined_ , he thought through the haze of exhaustion. She watched the ground ahead of them, navigating their way to the castle doors, and so she did not see that his gaze was always on her instead.   
  
He was too far gone to realize he was openly staring. Much too far gone.

-~-~-

Hermione had worried that they'd be seen once they were inside, but it was well into the small hours of the morning, and no-one was awake and stirring in the castle. At least not in the dungeons. She and Snape arrived at the entrance to his quarters without having encountered a single other soul.  _Thank Merlin for that_ , Hermione thought; she'd not like to have to explain to anyone why she was half-carrying the Potions master back to his private quarters, well past midnight.

  
Outside his door, Snape leaned heavily against the stone wall of the corridor and let go of Hermione. He unsheathed his wand and tiredly cast the incantations to release the wards. With a grind of stone on stone, the door swung open, but he did not move. He stared instead at Hermione's face, shadowed by the hood of her grey cloak. He thought of thanking her, but somehow the words would not come. And so he simply leaned against the wall and watched her. He was too exhausted to feel disgusted by his lack of self-control; that would come later, when he explored this memory like a rotten tooth, probing every humiliating detail.   
  
"Professor," she began, and then bit her lip slightly and paused, undoubtedly taken aback by his naked, open stare. But he could not force himself to look away. Her lips were slightly parted and her cheeks were flushed from exertion, tangled curls escaping from under her hood. A sudden, unstoppable wash of lust swept through him, everything he'd been tightly repressing for weeks. He saw himself pulling her to his body, throwing off that cloak, and taking her, right there, right in the dungeon corridor. The vision was vivid and realistic, almost hallucinatory in its strength. He clenched his teeth to stop from moaning.  _Get out of here now before you do something completely fucking ridiculous, Severus._  
  
Hermione saw the hungry, predatory expression on his face and took an involuntary step backward, catching her breath in her throat. "Professor, I... I think you should sleep."   
  
He managed a stiff, curt nod at the girl and without speaking, he retreated into his quarters in a swirl of robes. With a gesture, he set the wards again; the stone door slammed shut, leaving a reassuringly solid barrier between him and  _helpful_  Miss Granger. Oh yes, there would be disgust later, and recrimination, and self-loathing. He was weak. Weak, and a fool. But Snape made it no further than this in his litany of self-hatred before collapsing into a dreamless sleep, fully clothed on his bed.


	14. Chapter 14

The sun had been streaming through her window for hours and was quite high in the sky by the time Hermione finally roused from sleep the next morning. She thought back to the events of the night before and wrapped her arms around herself in her bed. The expression Professor Snape had borne on his face was one she'd never seen from him, not in all her years in his classroom. He'd looked like he wanted to hurt her, or...  _Or what?_  She shivered. Any other possibilities did not bear considering. And he'd been exhausted from spending a night dissembling in front of Lord Voldemort. She wondered what that must have been like for him and then decided it was likely best she didn't know.  
  
She'd slept completely through breakfast, and by the time she'd dressed and done a reasonable job of taming her hair, it was time for lunch already, as the rumbling in her stomach made clear.  
  
When she arrived in the Great Hall, Ron, Harry, Ginny, and several other Gryffindors were already there—finishing up, by the looks of it.   
  
"Hey, sleepyhead!" Ron called to her cheerfully. She rolled her eyes indulgently and took a seat next to him.   
  
"Ronald Weasley, how do you know I was  _sleeping_? I might have been studying, for all you know."  
  
He grinned. "Because I looked for you in the library, and I looked for you in the common room, and I happen to know you hate bathing before noon, so that leaves one place you could have been: Bed!" He finished triumphantly. "Am I wrong?"  
  
She sighed, with the corner of her mouth quirking up just a bit. "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes."  
  
This got a laugh from Harry and Ginny, sitting next to each other on the other side of the table. Ginny asked, "Late night, Hermione?"  
  
She shrugged lightly. "Studying."  
  
Ginny lifted an eyebrow, but didn't press her friend. "New topic," she said. "Come to Hogsmeade with us this afternoon! You spent all night studying, so you can surely take this afternoon off!" Hermione pursed her lips together, and Ginny said, "Come on, you  _need_  a break."  
  
Hogsmeade. Hermione had almost forgotten. She was sorely tempted to go; it sounded a lot better than spending another night with Snape probing her mind and berating her. She wondered if she could reasonably beg off from her Occlumency lesson… but then she thought about her professor's likely reaction were she to try to do so.   
  
Besides, she'd done quite a bit of practicing lately and had to admit that she was looking forward to putting her efforts to use.  _I think he'll find that invading my mind isn't quite so simple as he's accustomed to_ , she thought with grim satisfaction.  
  
So with regret that was only partially feigned, she shook her head. "I'm sorry; I'd really love to, but I just can't." She didn't elaborate further, even though her friends looked at her expectantly.  _Let them wonder_ , she thought, tired of trying to come up with excuses for her whereabouts.  _I'm not accountable to you lot._  
  
Ginny looked skeptical but only said, "Well, if you change your mind..." And then, brightening, "But, you and I  _do_  need to discuss Ball stuff sometime soon." She punctuated this with a wink, and a meaningful glance at Harry.  
  
"Oh Gods, my gown! I'd nearly forgotten!" Hermione hesitated, then said, "Look, maybe tomorrow afternoon?"  _Or maybe never?_  Hermione felt irritable every time she even thought of the Ball. She wished she'd never agreed to go with Ron. It seemed to have only reinforced his idea that they were destined for each other, and it would only make the inevitable letting-down that much more difficult.   
  
She'd thought of breaking up with Ron prior to the Ball; then she wouldn't have to go at all and could avoid all of this silly nonsense entirely. But she felt that was too heartless and cold even for her. Only a few months ago, she'd been considering a future with Ron, a future with a wedding gown, and a home together, and little ginger-haired children. Considering it without much excitement, granted, but considering it nonetheless.   
  
 _What's changed since then, Hermione?_  An obvious answer lurked, but she refused to think about that. Things had changed; that was the important thing. She'd simply have to accept it. And so would Ron… eventually.  
  
Ginny laughed. "Hermione, you're  _impossible_. The Ball is next weekend and you're only just thinking about your gown! Honestly!"  
  
"Yeah, honestly!" Ron added, sounding somewhat hurt. Hermione gave him a reproachful look.  
  
"Ron, come on. You know me. I'm just not a... gown-planning sort of girl."  
  
This mollified him somewhat, and Ginny, looking amused at this exchange, said, "Tomorrow, then!"   
  
With this agreed upon, the friends parted ways. Hermione headed back into the castle, while her friends made their way to Hogsmeade.  _Stupid Ball_ , she thought darkly, as she took the stairs back to Gryffindor Tower.  _Stupid Ball, stupid Ron, stupid gown._    
  
There were four hours left until her lesson with Snape. When she got to her room, she seated herself on her bed in a lotus position and took a deep breath. Four hours to practice. Four hours to make her mind as opaque as she could. Four hours to clear her head of all thoughts. Thoughts of Ron, thoughts of Hogsmeade.   
  
Thoughts of her Potions professor and the way he'd looked at her the night before.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Hermione arrived at the appointed hour for her lesson, not entirely sure what to expect. When Professor Snape opened the door and she saw him, a faint flutter stirred in her belly, but she stifled it instantly, almost without thinking. She was prepared for this lesson; she was ready. She would not permit herself to be thrown off-kilter by misbehaving emotions.  
  
Snape, for his part, was as cold and composed as usual, if not more so. His lip turned up in a faint sneer when he saw her; it was a contemptuous gaze, there was no mistaking it. This was the Snape she was familiar with in the Potions classroom. Not the haggard, stumbling man she'd helped to this door the previous night.   
  
He inclined his head towards her and then said, "Miss Granger," with a trace of sarcasm. "Another minute and I'd have had five points from Gryffindor."  
  
There was no sign in his demeanor of what had passed between them.  _All right, so that's how it's to be_ , Hermione thought. To be honest, she felt somewhat relieved. It was better for them to be back in their usual roles; the self-assured instructor, and the competent student. Nothing more.  
  
She calculated her response carefully: "I believe I am on time, sir." It held the faintest hint of impudence. She'd learned the past few weeks in Snape's classroom that this was enough to warrant harsh mockery and punitive consequences from him there. But here, he only cocked an eyebrow at her.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Her theory was confirmed, then: He was different when it was just the two of them alone. His behavior in the classroom was… an act? Or something else? She couldn't be sure, but felt a certain amount of relief, regardless.   
  
She entered his private office, and he closed and warded the door behind her. "In front of the desk, please, as before."  
  
She stood where he directed her, taking her position with her back to the large wooden desk. She realized that she was twisting her hands together nervously, and stopped it by clasping them together instead. To her embarrassment, Snape noticed this; his lip twitched knowingly.   
  
"You're going to have to control yourself better than that, Miss Granger."  
  
While he spoke, Snape had moved closer, facing her from only a foot away. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body; could smell linseed on his hands from some potion he'd been brewing. She stifled the treacherous fluttering in her belly again and forced herself to meet his eyes.  
  
He waited for a long moment before speaking, his voice quiet and cold. "Miss Granger, I am going to attempt to view a particular memory, just as before. And I want you to keep me from doing so, just as before. However, this time I want you to use Occlumency, rather than your crude show of brute force."   
  
Stung, she opened her mouth to reply, but he carried on, "If you use means other than Occlumency to keep me out, you'll spend next Saturday night on your knees scrubbing my classroom,  _is that understood?_ "  
  
Snape had expected—hoped—to goad her to anger, but instead, to his irritation, she only returned his stare with one of her own and said, "Understood."  
  
Snape had spent a considerable length of time that morning and afternoon sitting at the desk in this very office, thinking about his upcoming lesson with Granger. After the preceding evening, he'd been inclined to cancel it entirely, but he had dismissed that impulse as rash and immature. She was a mere girl; he had no need to run and hide from her. No, the lesson would proceed as scheduled. He'd enter her mind, and she'd try to keep him out, and undoubtedly she would fail. The thought had sent a frisson of pleasure through him: Yes, she'd fail. He'd  _make_  her fail.   
  
Pursuing this train of thought, he'd considered which memory to target. Nothing recent. He'd had more than his fill of watching her adolescent fumblings with Weasley, and the thought of examining her memories of any of his own... recent interactions with her turned his stomach. He'd snarled at himself in disgust, remembering some of the things he'd done.  
  
No, absolutely nothing recent. And then an idea had uncoiled inside his mind—a nasty idea, but perhaps an  _effective_  one. He knew the memory he'd force her to show him: an embarrassing memory, a humiliating one. One she'd certainly not want to relive, especially not with  _him_.   
  
This had nothing to do with his personal pleasure. He was merely teaching her to successfully Occlude. Defending herself from having this particular memory violated would be highly motivating for her. It was good instruction, nothing more, nothing less. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he'd nearly lost control of himself in a public fucking hallway with her, nor with her increasingly frequent appearance in his dreams. No, those things did not bear thinking about, because thinking about them—considering them, dwelling on them—was dangerously close to admitting that he was indulging a need to punish her... to punish her for the sin of his lust.   
  
He had no such need. And so this was certainly not a punishment.  
  
With no warning, he murmured, " _Legilimens_ ," and Granger took a sharp breath as he entered her mind.  
  
Her defenses seemed somewhat stronger and better-organized than the last time, but she remained unable to keep him out. He pushed more and more deeply, searching for a memory he knew to be there.   
  
He moved quickly past all of her recent experiences with Weasley and Potter, her thoughts about her classes, her summer holiday, going further and further into the past. This memory should hold powerful emotional resonance; it should be relatively easy to locate. And then… yes. He found it, and simultaneously she realized what he intended to view.  
  
Hermione nearly thrust him out of her mind before she could stop herself. Anger filled her, roiling and surging like a tidal wave, powerful and consuming, and she knew she could use that power to shove him out of her mind; she knew she could, and she wanted to, so badly. But that was against the rules.  
  
 _You have no right!_  The thought struck him like a physical blow.  
  
He heard her breathing deliberately, and he could sense her attempts to calm herself. He felt a smirk tug at his mouth.  _I'm going to make you fail, girl._  
  
The memory Snape had chosen to violate was one she had deliberately not thought about for years. It was three years prior, and she was still really just a child, standing amidst her friends in the middle of Snape's Potions classroom. In the memory, she covered her mouth with her hands, trying to stop anyone from seeing that a misplaced hex had made her teeth grow wildly out of control. Snape felt her embarrassment, her shame, her overpowering desire to hide her overgrown teeth away. And then Weasley—the thought  _that boy has done a thousand times more to hurt her than I ever have_  briefly crossed his mind—made her show herself to him.   
  
He sensed a thread of relief in her thoughts then, woven in with her overarching humiliation; relief that at last a teacher, a professor, would see what had happened and would help her. With faint surprise, he found that she had trusted him; that even though he frightened and intimidated her, she had trusted him as a professor. Trusted him to do the right thing.   
  
He watched the memory unfold in her mind, heading inexorably for what they both knew happened next; for Snape to take her misplaced trust in him and crush it, destroy it. Destroy it completely.  
  
 _No more than she deserved, he thought. She should never have trusted me. Not then, not now._  
  
Hermione, inside the memory along with her Potions professor— _why? why this one? why is he doing this to me?_ —knew that she had to pull herself together, to regain control before they reached the end, because having to watch her previous humiliation alongside the man who had caused it, alongside  _this_  man, would break her. Break her completely. Break her in a way that Cruciatus never could. And so she had to stop him before they got that far.   
  
 _Come on. You can do this._  
  
With considerable effort, she quelled her panic and cast her mind back to her endless hours of practice over the past few days. She summoned the cool white mist, as she had done so many times before, and found to her faint surprise that the memory she was inside...  _faded_  slightly. It was the difference between acting in a play and being a member of the audience. She was in the audience now. She was outside, separate. Excitement rose within her, but as soon as it did, she felt herself being sucked back into the memory.  _No._  She forcibly quieted her mind again.   
  
 _White. Nothing._  
  
Snape was startled to find the entire memory receding from him, the colors fading, the sound diminishing.  _What the hell is she doing?_  A haze of white descended over the scene. He pushed harder and deeper into her mind, attempting to retrieve it, but there was nothing for him to grab on to, nothing for him to pull out. It was just...  _gone._    
  
She was a  _seventh-year student._  She should not be able to do this. Yes, he'd instructed her in the technique, but she should not have mastered it so quickly; he should have been able to easily penetrate her defenses. He heard himself snarling under his breath, and then, finally, he pulled out of her mind completely. She looked back at him with wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He hadn't realized she'd been weeping; he wondered if she realized it herself.  
  
Hermione saw the naked fury on Snape's face, and matched it with her own, her face lit with anger.  
  
"How dare you!" she said, stepping back from him. "How  _dare_  you!"  
  
He advanced on her, backing her against the desk and closing the already-short distance between them to no more than a few inches, his arms folded imperiously over his frock-coat.  
  
"How dare I  _what_ , Miss Granger? How dare I attempt to teach an ungrateful  _chit_  something that might possibly  _save her fucking life_? It is an excellent question, I must admit. Perhaps  _you_  have an answer for me, since you apparently  _know better than I how to teach Occlumency!_ " He saw that her jaw was trembling. He found that he wanted her to cry; he wanted to reduce her to that.   
  
But she wasn't crying. Her eyes were narrowed in fury. "How dare you show me  _that?_ " she spat. "There are a hundred, a thousand other memories that you could have used for this... this lesson, but instead you chose  _this_  one. Why?  _Why?_  It's because you enjoy humiliating me, isn't it? Because you  _hate_  me. Why don't you just say it!" Her voice rose to a shout. " _Say it to my face!"_  she cried, and she pushed against his chest, trying to shove him away from her.  
  
Snape caught her hands and held her wrists tightly. She tried to pull away but he was too strong.  
  
"Let me go," she whispered.  _Oh Gods, I've pushed him too far._  She felt a thrill of panic. Snape's face was twisted in anger, so different from his usual cold, controlled expression that he was barely recognizable.  
  
"Do not," he breathed, "presume to know my mind. You know nothing— _nothing_ —of me.  _Nothing_."  
  
He pulled her hands towards him, forcing her to take a jerking step in his direction. For a split second, she saw a trace of the look he'd had on his face the night before, and her eyes widened. But then he released her hands, and she pulled them back towards herself as though he had burned her.   
  
With obvious effort, he composed himself enough to say, "I will decide if these lessons are to continue, and if so, when the next one will be."  
  
Hermione managed, "Yes, sir," with a shaking voice.  
  
"Now...  _get out of my sight_."  
  
She said, "Gladly," but by that time she was nearly over the threshold, and she did not think he'd heard.  
  
—~—~—  
  
That night, lying in bed, Hermione thought about what had happened, replaying it in her mind.  
  
When she'd seen his face contorted in rage, she'd been angry at him, and a little afraid, but she'd also been… what, exactly?  
  
She relived the moment, turning it over and over in her thoughts. Angry, yes; oh Gods, she was angry at him. But she'd felt something else… a thrill of adrenaline that wasn't just the result of anger. She'd been… excited. Excited that she'd made him feel  _something_. Even if that something was rage.  
  
But that did not bear further analysis or consideration. If Snape's plan worked, they'd destroy Voldemort in a few short weeks. That was the important thing. Not Snape or his feelings about her. Or hers about him.  
  
 _It's Snape, for Merlin's sake. It's ridiculous for me to even be entertaining these thoughts about him in the first place. Not that there are any thoughts to entertain._  
  
She turned over in bed and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Sunday morning, Hermione woke to the pleasant realization that today was to be Snape-free. No Occlumency lessons. No Potions class. If she avoided the Great Hall at mealtimes, she wouldn't have to see him at all. She felt relieved, and free; she hadn't quite realized how much mental energy she'd been spending on him.  
  
Today was for her, just for her. And a good thing too, she thought; she was getting desperately behind in her studies for N.E.W.T.s. With delicious anticipation curling through her body, she thought that she'd spend most of the day in the library. Studying. Alone. Blissfully, delightfully alone. She twisted her hair up into a high, messy bun, as she usually did when she was planning to pore over scrolls for a lengthy period of time, and gave herself a quick glance in the mirror. The dark circles were still there, to be sure, but the promise of a day free of obligation to other people left her looking better and more at ease than she had in weeks.  
  
Four hours later, she was in an isolated carrel far to the rear of the main floor of the library, deeply engrossed in a tricky Arithmancy problem. She tapped the edge of her quill against her lower lip and frowned, trying to work out exactly which bit of the spell was supposed to carry over to the next bit— _honestly, how do these people get by without calculus?_ —when a voice broke her concentration.  
  
"Hermione, you're going to leave ink marks all over your face if you keep doing that."  
  
With a start, Hermione looked up, and saw Ginevra Weasley standing there with a mischievous grin on her face.  
  
"Ginny! What are you doing here?"  
  
"Hermione!" Ginny parroted back. "I might ask you the same! Hello? Gown? Today?"  
  
"Oh, Gods. I forgot. I am so, so sorry, Ginny."  
  
Ginny laughed. "Yes, I'd  _gathered_  that you'd forgotten, Hermione. Otherwise do you think I'd be in here on a lovely Sunday afternoon?"  
  
Hermione glanced around; there were no windows visible from her carrel, only shelves and stacks of old, decaying scrolls, and a few other carrels tucked away here and there.   
  
"Is it still afternoon?"  
  
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yes it is, you prat. Come on, pack up your things. I thought we could go to Hogsmeade to discuss."  
  
"Hogsmeade?" Hermione repeated.  
  
"Are you slow today? Hogsmeade! You missed out yesterday, so I thought you might like an outing today. Even if Ron and Harry can't come."   
  
Ginny made note of the shadow that crossed her friend's face at the mention of Ron, confirming a suspicion she'd been entertaining for some time. But they could discuss that later.  
  
"Actually, that does sound pretty good," Hermione said.  
  
"Of course it does. You want to spend the whole day in here? Never mind that; of course you do. But butterbeers will be nice too, yeah?"  
  
Hermione grinned up at her friend.  
  
"Yeah. Just let me get my things put away here."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Ginny was right; it really was a lovely Sunday afternoon. The sky was crystal blue, with only the faintest wisps of clouds scudding along in the light breeze. Spring was coming; Hermione could smell the scent of the earth thawing. She had to admit that it was nice to get out of Hogwarts for a while. Snape and Voldemort and the dungeons and firedrake scales all seemed remote, distant, surreal, compared with the fresh air and the familiar trek to Hogsmeade.   
  
"Thanks, Ginny," she said, suddenly; the two girls had been walking in companionable silence.   
  
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for what?"  
  
"Thanks for getting me out of there. I think I really needed it."  
  
"Yeah, I think you did too." Ginny looked as though she wanted to say something else, but then they were within sight of their destination, The Three Broomsticks. Ginny said, "Doesn't look too busy today," and was somewhat surprised when Hermione agreed with a fervent, "Good."  
  
—~—~—  
  
The Three Broomsticks was indeed somewhat deserted for a Sunday afternoon. "There was quite a crowd yesterday," Ginny remarked. "I guess everyone is sleeping it off today."   
  
"Or studying," added Hermione. Ginny gave her a dubious look, and then both girls giggled. "OK, maybe not," she admitted.   
  
The two friends were tucked into a table far to the rear of the tavern, out of sight of most of the rest of the patrons. Hermione had chosen the spot; she'd said she wasn't in the mood to run into anyone today, and Ginny hadn't questioned it. There were two butterbeers in front of them, Ginny's half-full and Hermione's barely touched.  
  
"So, gown," Ginny said, and saw the same shadow pass over Hermione's face that she'd seen earlier. It was quick, and she'd have missed if she weren't watching for it. Hermione recovered quickly and pasted a pleasant smile onto her face, but Ginny was no idiot, and could tell when a friend was hiding something.  
  
"All right, spill," she said.  
  
Hermione shifted her gaze uncomfortably from her friend. "Spill what?" she said. "I haven't given the first thought to my gown."  
  
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I wasn't exactly talking about the gown, although actually yes, let's just start there: Why is it that every time I mention the Ball, or your gown, you get this look on your face like you've eaten a mud-flavored Every Flavor Bean?" Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Ginny kept on, "And before you say you're just not a Ball type of person, I  _know_  you're not, trust me, but usually you're at least a  _little_  excited by this point. Something is different this time. I'm your friend. You can trust me. Now  _spill_."  
  
Hermione looked at her friend across the table. Ginny swept her loose auburn hair over one shoulder, pursed her lips together, and fixed Hermione with an inquisitive stare. Hermione had been about to dissemble with a lot of nonsense about N.E.W.T.s and the stress of studying, but seeing her friend like this brought an involuntary laugh bubbling up out of her. Ginny's eyebrows shot up in response, which disarmed Hermione completely. She burst into giggles.  
  
"What?!" Ginny said, with a note of indignance.  
  
"You look like a police detective," Hermione said, stifling another series of giggles. "Excuse me, ma'am, but can you describe the nature of the perpetrator?"  
  
Ginny rolled her eyes again, but with amusement. "I'm going to require a full statement, if you please."  
  
"Oh," said Hermione, mock-seriously, "well, in that case..."  
  
And then the laughter died inside her as she realized she had no idea what to tell her friend. Ginny was obviously spot-on with her assessment; Hermione was dreading the Ball this year. But she could hardly tell Ron's sister what the problem was.  
  
Ginny saved her from having to make up a lie by being the one to speak first. "It's Ron, isn't it?"  
  
Hermione froze, unable to respond.  
  
"It's all right, Hermione." Ginny looked at her friend's face with concern and then went on, "Honestly, it's all right! I'm not upset, I swear!"  
  
Hermione felt as though the room were spinning around her. "You're... not?"  
  
"I'm honestly not."  
  
The older girl slumped in her seat like a marionette with its strings cut, the tension gone from her body. "Yeah," she said, giving her friend a grateful half-smile, "yeah, it's Ron. It's so Ron. I just don't know what to do." And then, "How did you know?"  
  
Ginny cocked her head sideways and said, "Oh, Hermione, come on, it's not been that hard to see. You treat him like a... like a friend. There's no spark there. And look, I'll be honest, I never really thought you two were a good fit in the first place."  
  
"You didn't?"  
  
Ginny laughed. "Gods, no. Are you kidding me? You were never a good match! He likes Quidditch, going down the pub, and snogging, and you like books, research, and... and more books." Seeing her friend's reproachful gaze, she shrugged and said, "Well? You do!"  
  
She went on, "Anyway, Ron has some kind of idol worship thing going on with you, but that's hardly the same as love. I mean..."   
  
Ginny gave Hermione a serious, intent gaze. "Do you? Do you love Ron?"  
  
Hermione held perfectly still. This is the question that she'd been avoiding asking herself for months now.  _You know the answer. Tell her._  
  
"I... no. No, I don't. I don't love Ron."   
  
She felt tears pricking at her eyes. "I can't believe I said that out loud," she said, half to herself. "Oh Gods. I don't love Ron."  
  
Ginny pushed the butterbeers out of the way and reached across the table to take Hermione's hands in her own. "Look at me, Hermione."   
  
Hermione lifted her eyes, and Ginny said, "It's all right. You're just not  _meant_  for each other, and I think Ron knows it too."  
  
"But what about the Ball?" Hermione said, knowing as she said it how silly and inconsequential it sounded now. But Ginny didn't seem to care; she nodded in response, taking her friend seriously.  _She is a better friend than I have treated her as_ , Hermione thought, ashamed to think of how she'd assumed Ginny would react to this news.  
  
Ginny released Hermione's hands and took another sip of butterbeer before responding. "I think you should go."  
  
Hermione gave her friend a dubious look, the obvious question remaining unspoken:  _But what about Ron?_  
  
The auburn-haired girl went on, "Look, you'll have a good time, and frankly you could use the break. You've been doing a lot of studying lately. I've barely seen you!"  
  
"That's true," Hermione agreed, her eyes touched with unease. She thought about the reason that Ginny—that all of her friends—hadn't seen her much lately, and wondered if anyone suspected. But how could they? Even if she openly told everyone about what she'd been doing, who would believe her? No-one was likely to guess; not even Ginny, who was generally the most perceptive of all of their crowd of friends.  
  
Ginny said, "Ron's going to be crushed when you tell him; that's unavoidable. But he'll get over it quickly, and there's no sense in ruining the Ball for both of you."  
  
Her friend gave her a wry smile. "When did you become so sage, Miss Weasley?"  
  
Ginny grinned. "One of us had better be, Miss Granger. And all right, my ulterior motive is that if you don't go, I'll be surrounded by all of those Lavender Brown types and I'll be  _miserable_. You have to go, Hermione. Non-optional!"  
  
"Well, when you put it that way—" and then Hermione broke off, suddenly. "Ginny, did you hear that?"  
  
"Hear what?" Ginny said with alarm; Hermione had gone bloodless and pale, and her eyes darted around the tavern.  
  
"Hermione? Hear  _what_? What's wrong?"  
  
Hermione looked back at her, eyes wide with panic, and hissed, "Death Eater."  
  
Ginny's eyebrows shot up. " _What?_ "  
  
Hermione leaned forward across the table, her eyes still scanning the interior of the tavern. "I know that laugh. Don't tell me you didn't hear it. A minute ago, outside. I'd know that laugh anywhere. It's Bellatrix Lestrange, Ginny!"  
  
"At  _The Three Broomsticks_?" Ginny hissed back. "Have you gone  _mental_ , Hermione?"  
  
But her friend had already got up from the table and was heading for the door. "Oh Gods," Ginny said, to herself now as Hermione clearly wasn't listening.  _If it_  is _Bellatrix Lestrange, then what purpose is possibly served by getting up and chasing after her?_  she wanted to yell after her friend, but instead she threw a few coins down onto the table and hurried after her. She was really going to have to speak to Hermione about the amount of studying she'd been doing lately.  
  
When Ginny caught up to Hermione outside the front door of the tavern, her friend was white and trembling, and there was no-one else in sight. "She Apparated," Hermione said, her eyes still trained on a spot on the road in front of her. "She Apparated just as I got here. I saw her. It was her, Ginny. I know it was her. Why was she here? And why was she talking to—"  
  
"For Merlin's sake, Hermione, what is  _wrong_  with you? You look like you just saw a carriage accident!"  
  
Ginny's interruption seemed to bring Hermione back into focus. She stared at her friend blankly for a moment and then, in apparent confusion, said, "I'm sorry, Ginny, I just... I saw... I thought I saw..."  
  
Ginny's face was tight with concern. She looked at the spot on the road that Hermione had indicated, and then back at the other girl. "Hermione, tell me what you're talking about. Did you see a Death Eater?  _Here?_  Talking to someone?  _What is going on?_ "  
  
As the adrenaline and terror subsided, Hermione realized with a stab that she couldn't explain any of this to her friend without explaining all of it, and she couldn't do that. Not yet.   
  
 _Be strong_ , she told herself.  
  
She made a show of shaking her head as though to clear it, and pasted an apologetic smile onto her face. "Oh, Ginny, I have no idea why I got so upset. When I got out here, I saw that it was just a witch, nobody I knew. She Apparated out of here, and I... I don't know, just for a second I thought she looked like a Death Eater. It was ridiculous of me. I think maybe I've been spending too much time in the library." She gave her friend a self-deprecatory smile.  
  
Ginny's eyebrows were still raised in disbelief. "Hermione, that was...  _weird_. Are you sure you're OK?"  
  
"I'm completely OK, I promise," Hermione lied. "Come on, forget about this. Let's go talk gowns."   
  
Ginny agreed, still clearly worried, and they set off for Hogwarts together. Hermione had no desire to discuss gowns, but if she wanted to really make Ginny believe that she was OK, she had no real choice.  
  
But she was decidedly not OK. She'd heard it: Bellatrix Lestrange's mad laughter, a sound that crawled right into her spine, a sound that she couldn't mistake for anything else in the world. And when she'd foolishly run outside— _hoping what? To confront her, you idiot? That surely would have gone well_ —she'd got there just in time to see Lestrange Apparating away. And then, not half a second later, her companion had Apparated as well.  
  
Draco Malfoy.  
  
Bellatrix Lestrange was meeting with Draco. With a sinking feeling, Hermione realized that she was going to have to tell Snape, and she was going to have to tell him today.   
  
But first, Ginny, and stupid ball gowns.


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione frowned at herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was still in the high, messy bun from earlier, but her regular school robes had been replaced by a gaudy, ostentatious...  _thing_  in bright Gryffindor scarlet and gold.   
  
"Are these  _sequins?_ " she asked Ginny, who sat cross-legged on the bed behind her, watching this with a barely-concealed smirk. And then, "I can  _see_  you in the mirror, Ginevra Weasley, and I don't find this particularly amusing."  
  
"Oh, come on," Ginny said with a giggle, "haven't you always wanted to be visible from space?"  
  
"This is silly anyway," Hermione said, turning sideways and finding that the view was no better from that angle. "I know it's traditional, but red and gold are terrible on me. This makes my face look blotchy and awful."  
  
Ginny pointed her wand at her friend, and with a " _Transformata!_ " Hermione's gown transformed into a more elegant, understated sheath, in scarlet red with a gold lining.  
  
"See, that's much better, and your face doesn't look blotchy at all. Ooh… in fact, this one's quite lovely."  
  
Hermione examined herself in the mirror. True, this gown was much better than the previous monstrosity, but still... she sighed. She and Ginny had been through this for the past two years: Ginny suggested gowns, and Hermione shot down her suggestions, until finally they settled on one that Hermione could at least live with.  
  
The reassuring familiarity of the routine was more calming and soothing than she'd expected it to be. The incident at the Three Broomsticks with Lestrange and Malfoy was already receding into surreality. She was half-tempted to convince herself that she hadn't seen anything at all, just as she'd told Ginny.  
  
 _But you have. And you know you have to tell him._  
  
She shook the thought off. Time for that later on. She wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror and said, "I really prefer green, you know. All my Muggle clothes were green or blue."  
  
Ginny flopped dramatically back onto the bed and sighed. "Hermione. We go through this every year. You cannot wear  _green_  to the Yule Ball! Come on!"  
  
"I  _know_  I can't. I'm just saying that I think it's ridiculous that I can't. It's a Ball, not a Quidditch match, for God's sake. This one does look all right, though, I suppose." She studied herself critically in the mirror. "I feel more comfortable in school robes. This sort of thing is just..."  
  
Her friend snorted loudly through her nose. "Cram it, Hermione. You've decided to go, so you're going, and you clearly can't show up in school robes. I think this one might do. What do you think?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "No. Too much red, not enough gold."  
  
"You're impossible. The last one was mainly gold and it was hideous!"  
  
"Yes," Hermione agreed, "but..." She furrowed her brow for a moment, and then pointed the wand at herself in the mirror. Another Transformata later, she wore a gown of shimmering, muted gold, with dropped sleeves that displayed her bare shoulders and a full skirt with just a few simple gathers. She swiveled her hips from side to side and watched as the material furled and unfurled, glinting as it caught the light.   
  
Ginny sat straight up in the bed; Hermione could see in the mirror that her mouth was open. "Hermione, for Merlin's sake, what did you need  _me_  for if you could do  _that_?"  
  
"You think this is all right?" Hermione took a fold of the fabric between her thumb and forefinger and examined it. "I don't know, is it too... too something?"  
  
The younger girl slid off the bed and joined Hermione at the mirror. She inspected the gown from collar to hemline, biting her lip, and said, "Try this." With a wave of her wand and a muttered incantation, the neckline dropped a few inches to reveal Hermione's cleavage, and the bodice shrank slightly, just enough to fully display the figure of Hermione's waist and hips beneath.   
  
Hermione drew back slightly from her own appearance in the mirror, startled. She'd never worn anything this revealing before. It wasn't a deliberate choice so much as that it had never really even occurred to her. She'd always assumed that on the outside chance someone was actually interested in her, it would be for her brains and not her body, so why bother showing off her body?  
  
But she looked at herself in the mirror, draped in glowing gold, the fabric accentuating and displaying the curve of her breasts, and she barely recognized herself.  _Will_  he  _recognize me_? she found herself thinking before she could stop herself.  
  
"There, perfect," Ginny was saying. "You're gorgeous. It doesn't even matter that there's no red. You're  _stunning_."  
  
Hermione frowned, looking at herself in the mirror as though she were a shop mannequin. "I don't know about this, Ginny..."  
  
Her friend gave her a conspiratorial grin. "I do. You look fantastic. Any man who sets eyes on you in that is going to be absolutely  _desperate_  for you."  
  
"I don't  _want_  Ron to be desperate for me."  
  
Ginny draped her arm around her friend's shoulder and looked at her with twinkling eyes. "Yes, well, Ron won't be the only man there, will he?"  
  
She noted with interest that Hermione rather uncharacteristically flushed bright red and went completely stiff at this. Her mouth opened as though to say something and then closed again in second thought.  _Wonder what that's all about_ , the younger girl thought.  _Someone inappropriate? Maybe... a Slytherin?_  But she'd let her friend off the hook for now; if her face turned any brighter red she'd match that first dress.   
  
"Want to see what I'm wearing for Harry?" Ginny asked brightly, and with barely-concealed relief, Hermione said that she did.  
  
—~—~—  
  
After Ginny left, Hermione changed back into her familiar school robes and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the door. She had to tell Snape what she'd seen, but she couldn't quite seem to force herself out of Gryffindor Tower. It was safe here, comfortable, with no Death Eaters or Potions professors. She could easily just pretend she'd never seen the incident in the street earlier.   
  
 _Yes_ , she thought,  _and what then? Snape goes before Voldemort not realizing that Draco Malfoy has been... has been what? Has been spying on him? On me? Snape survives only by having better information than the people around him. You can't keep this information from him._  
  
But was it really information worth having? What had she seen, truly? She'd heard what she  _thought_  was Bellatrix Lestrange, and she'd seen Malfoy Apparating right behind. It might mean nothing at all.   
  
She imagined Snape's reaction to being interrupted on a Sunday evening to be told that she'd seen... something. Something she wasn't quite sure of. Something she didn't know how to interpret. After he'd told her, quite specifically and in unmistakable terms, that he wanted her out of his sight.  
  
And then she imagined him screaming under Cruciatus because he'd been found out, been spied on, been revealed. Screaming and dying.  
  
 _You know it was Bellatrix Lestrange. That laugh was unmistakable. And you know you have to tell him._  
  
She stood up. Her limbs felt leaden, as though they were dragging heavy weights, but she willed herself to move towards the door.   
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape opened the door to his private quarters after the first knock. She looked up at him with a carefully blank expression, which he returned in kind.   
  
"Miss Granger. To what do I owe the...  _pleasure?_ " The slight curl of his lip was the only betrayal of any emotion.  
  
"Professor Snape, may I come in, please?"  
  
He arched an eyebrow contemptuously, looking at her as though she were a bothersome stray that wouldn't stop following him.  
  
"Please, sir. It's important, and..." She caught his gaze, and then let her eyes flicker up and then down the presently-deserted dungeon hallway, willing him to get the message. He did, inclining his head the barest fraction of an inch, and stepped back to allow her to enter. Snape had a sharp eye; she supposed he wouldn't have survived as long as he had without it.  
  
The fire blazed in the hearth; the room was well-lit, almost cozy. Or as cozy as this room could ever be, Hermione thought. There were books scattered about Snape's desk, and a cup of tea sitting within reach of his chair, steam still curling from the surface. She was faintly surprised to realize that he'd been reading for pleasure. She supposed she'd assumed that he spent all of his time either working or sleeping. It hadn't occurred to her that he had a... well, a life. A life apart from double-agency and teaching Hogwarts students.  
  
He was staring at her unblinking, arms folded over his chest.   
  
"Explain, Miss Granger."   
  
She wanted to sit down, but he hadn't invited her to, and so she stood facing him, awkward and uncomfortable. He stayed close to the door, as though only waiting for the instant that he could show her back out of it again.   
  
Without preamble, she told him, "Sir, I think that Bellatrix Lestrange is getting information from Draco Malfoy."  
  
He received this information with no visible reaction. "Go on."  
  
Hermione explained what she'd heard and seen at the Three Broomsticks, her self-consciousness fading as she related the details. He was silent and expressionless as he waited for her to finish.  
  
"You say that you heard her, but did not see her."  
  
Hermione's lips thinned slightly. She knew what he implied; had expected it. "Sir, I know her laugh and would not mistake it."  
  
He was silent for a moment and then said, half to himself, "No, I suppose you wouldn't." A long moment passed. She felt pinned down by his gaze, trapped by it, all of her awkwardness rushing back as she fought the urge to shrink away from him. Just as she thought she couldn't stand it for another second, he spoke: "Why did you tell me this?"  
  
She frowned, taken aback. "I thought it was important that you knew, sir. I... I apologize for disturbing you."  _Damn, damn, damn_. She was glowing red with embarrassment again; she could feel it.   
  
He cocked an eyebrow and said, "No. Why did you tell  _me_  this? Certainly information about the collusion of a Death Eater with a Hogwarts student might be of interest to some... member of the  _Order_." He infused this last word with scorn, but his eyes held only questioning.  
  
It hadn't even occurred to her to go to the Order, and the instant she thought about his question, she knew why. It blazed in her mind so brightly that if he'd been using even the least amount of Legilimency, he'd have been able to pluck it straight from her thoughts without even trying.   
  
Her eyes locked onto his, and she said simply, "I don't trust them. I trust you."  
  
His only reaction was the slightest twitch in his jaw.  
  
She didn't care whether he believed her or not. He'd asked her, and it was the truth. She didn't fully trust anyone in the Order; many of them were friends, but even a friend might be persuaded to turn his or her back for the right enticement. She had not forgotten their year of being duped by the false Mad-Eye Moody, either. It seemed unlikely that anyone currently in the Order was using Polyjuice to fool everyone, but the stakes were high.   
  
The only person that she trusted fully, completely, without any reserves, was the man standing before her. He could have Obliviated her against her will, but he hadn't. He could have turned her over to Voldemort as a prize to curry favor and save himself, but he didn't. He'd gone before the most powerful Legilimens in the world with false memories in his mind in order to protect their plan. To protect  _her_.   
  
No, she would hardly trust any member of the Order over him, flawed and broken though he might be.  
  
These thoughts flashed through her mind in the space of an instant. She stared at him defiantly, daring him to challenge her, daring him to make a mockery of this.  
  
Instead he said, "You are not safe at Hogwarts, Miss Granger."  
  
"What?" she said. She hadn't expected that. "Do you mean Malfoy?"  
  
He nodded slightly. "Malfoy, yes, but more than just Malfoy. He's a Slytherin. He knows how to wield influence. There will be others working for him and reporting to him, or at the very least reporting to the same people he reports to. He holds a grudge against you, and hurting one of Potter's closest friends would be quite the coup for him. Quite...  _prestigious_."  
  
Before she could stop herself, she said, "Professor, why do you care?" and then wanted to clap her hands over her mouth, wanted to take it back. But it was too late.  
  
His face darkened, and she winced, wanting nothing more than to run from the room.  _Why did I ask him that? What in the hell was I thinking?_  
  
In a low, controlled voice, he said, "Miss Granger, I find you tiresome, annoying, arrogant, and smug, but I do not wish to see you  _dead_."   
  
She opened her mouth to protest, to defend herself, but he ignored her and kept on, "For the time being, you should not be alone in the halls of this building outside Gryffindor Tower, and possibly not even there."  
  
"Ron and Harry have already been escorting me when they can," she said, glad to be saved from the previous line of discussion.   
  
"How chivalrous of them," he said. Hermione stifled her annoyance; she should have known better than to mention the two boys to Snape. But then, to her surprise, he went on, "Have them continue to do so."  
  
"Yes, sir," she said.  
  
"For tonight, I shall escort you myself back to your rooms."  
  
Hermione blinked. "Professor, I'm sure that's not necessary. I didn't see anyone on the way down here." Having Harry and Ron with her was one thing; the thought of having Snape chaperone her through the halls was demeaning and humiliating, placing her into the role of a child needing someone to hold her hand. She thought she'd rather be attacked by Malfoy.  
  
Snape gave her a tight smile, almost a smirk. "Precisely. If the halls are deserted, then there is no one to help you."  
  
He was right, of course; she couldn't argue with that. She tried a different tactic: "Professor Snape, really, I'm more than capable of getting back to my room on my own. You don't need—"   
  
He cut her off. "This is not a request, Granger. I'll go with you, or you'll spend the night here."  
  
Snape watched as her eyes widened and she flushed bright red again. Her reaction was exactly what he'd expected: outrage and shame. What else would she feel in response to such a suggestion?  _Look at her_ , he thought,  _she can barely stand the slightest mention of it_.   
  
He wondered how she would react if he told her that he'd showered that morning in ice-cold water to relieve himself of the erection that had been caused by yet another dream of her. Likely as though he were losing his mind.  _And aren't I_ , he thought, seeing her avert her eyes in shame.  _Aren't I losing my mind?_  
  
"Fine. Let's go." She said this through gritted teeth, refusing to meet his mocking eyes.  
  
With a theatrical flourish, he gestured to the door, already swinging open. "As I thought, Miss Granger. After you."  
  
—~—~—  
  
He accompanied her silently through the halls, two steps back, looming wraith-like behind her and making her nerves jangle. Distracted by his presence, she stumbled twice on the flagstones in the dungeon hallway. He made no offer of assistance, merely pausing his own stride while she recovered herself. She thought that this was the longest and most difficult trip she'd ever made from the dungeons to Gryffindor Tower. She wished he would at least walk next to her; she had to keep fighting the urge to turn her head to make sure he was still there.  _He is doing this on purpose_ , she thought in frustration.  _He wants to unbalance me. To unnerve me. And damn him, he is succeeding._  
  
He followed her all the way to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who looked down at them with a haughty sniff and then turned away with her nose in the air. The expression on her face made it clear that she would not deign to make casual conversation with a  _Slytherin_. Hermione stopped just short of the portrait, waiting for her professor to leave before she spoke the password. But just as she turned to give him a grudging and insincere thanks for the escort, she felt his hand on her left shoulder, firmly holding her in place. She stiffened at his touch, but did not protest.   
  
He leaned close to her from behind, his frock-coat brushing against her robes. She could feel the heat of his body and smell the harsh soap that he washed with. She wanted badly to turn around and face him, but he gripped her shoulder tightly to prevent her and brought his mouth to her ear, so close that his lips brushed against the soft down there. She breathed rapidly, struggling to remain still and calm. Every slightest movement sent a dart of adrenaline down her spine.  
  
He knew he was tormenting her, knew he should not be indulging himself like this. But he felt her body against his, rigid and trembling, and he heard the breath catching in her throat, and he knew that he would not stop.  _This will teach you to trust me, girl._  
  
He breathed into her ear, so softly that even the Fat Lady couldn't overhear, "We will resume your lessons."  
  
"Yes, sir," she whispered. Her voice wavered; she could not help it.  
  
"Tomorrow night at eight o'clock, sharp. Make sure that no-one sees you arrive."   
  
She again said, "Yes," but this time it came out sounding more like a gasp. He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that she felt more than heard, and then he released her. She turned finally to look at him, but he had already gone in a swirl of black robes.   
  
Hermione found that her hands were trembling. She breathed deeply and clasped them together to keep them still, looking up sharply when she heard the Fat Lady's merry laugh.  
  
"Ooh, that's a sign, my dear."  
  
"A sign of what?" Hermione asked, surprised and irritated. She was in no mood to play games with a portrait, of all things.  
  
But the Fat Lady merely smiled enigmatically and hid her face behind her Chinese fan. "Password please, love."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape barely allowed the door of his quarters to close behind him before slamming his fist into the stone wall.   
  
Stupid. Stupid, and idiotic. He'd made a public display out of himself with the girl. In Gryffindor fucking Tower, no less. In front of a bloody  _portrait_. Anyone might have seen them there. Anyone might have seen, and wondered, and talked. If there was one thing he had learned in his twenty-odd years of reporting to Voldemort, it was that talk got back to him. Always. Without failure. So why,  _why_ , had he done it? He was better than that, smarter than that.   
  
 _Because you knew that she'd stand there submitting to you, and you don't care if she despises you; touching her and making her tremble is good enough.  
  
Because you want her._  
  
He whispered "No," aloud, but he knew it to be true. He'd been viciously suppressing it for weeks, but that didn't matter, that hadn't worked. He wanted her, wanted her badly, could not stop the wanting no matter what he did. And now he was making mistakes because of this girl. This blasted fucking  _girl_.   
  
Control. He had to regain control of himself. He braced his fists against the varnished surface of his desk, feeling the wood grain creak and deform under his hands. He closed his eyes, and with nearly inhuman effort, he took his anger and humiliation and frustration and desire, and he pushed them all away into a dark, hidden corner of his mind where they could safely be ignored. He had no time for these distractions. He would be cold, rational, controlled. As he always was. As he would always be. No seventh-year student would change that.  
  
Not even this one.


	17. Chapter 17

Hermione was descending the stairs into the main hallway on her way to breakfast when she gasped out loud and stopped so suddenly that Lavender Brown, coming down behind, ran directly into her. Both girls stumbled, and Lavender's satchel fell open, sending papers, notebooks, quills, and beauty supplies cascading down the stairs ahead of them. She pushed past Hermione with an annoyed sigh, complaining, "Her- _mi_ -one, why don't you pay attention to where you're going?"  
  
Hermione blinked at the jumble of makeup brushes, mirrors, and other assorted debris littering the floor. "I'm sorry, Lavender. I was distracted, I guess. Here, let me help."  
  
She bent down to help the other girl collect her things. As she did, Lavender snatched one notebook in particular away, quickly stuffing it into her satchel. Though not quickly enough to stop Hermione from seeing the words "I LOVE RONALD WEASLEY" inked in pink bubbly letters across the first page.   
  
 _Lavender Brown?_  she thought with bemusement.  _And Ron?_  She wondered why he hadn't asked  _Lavender_  to the bloody Yule Ball, then. It would have saved Hermione quite a bit of difficulty, and it looked like Lavender wouldn't have minded one bit. The other girl stalked off into the Great Hall, tossing her hair over one shoulder and making a point of sighing loudly.  
  
Hermione remembered then what had caused her to stop cold in her tracks: It had suddenly occurred to her that if Malfoy was reporting to Lestrange, then perhaps Lestrange was telling Malfoy things as well. Specifically, things about what one of his classmates had done with her Potions professor. The thought made her stomach coil into a tight, writhing ball; how could she face him, if he knew that Snape had forced her to endure Cruciatus? If he knew that she'd been instructed to... to  _suck his cock and swallow the come_ , she heard Bellatrix Lestrange's high mad voice saying. Yes, Malfoy might know about that now.   
  
He wouldn't know that she'd actually done it. Snape had protected her from that humiliation. But Malfoy might well know everything else.   
  
Or he might not. She shook her head to clear it. It would be easy enough to avoid him; she'd been doing just that for the past several weeks—years, really—anyway.   
  
 _A few more weeks. And then if Snape is right, this will all be over and done with._  
  
She straightened her posture and lifted her chin as she walked into the Great Hall, projecting confidence and self-assurance, as befit the Head Girl. But the thought tickled at the back of her mind:  _Who else in this room knows?_  
  
—~—~—  
  
Hermione had been toying with the idea of ignoring Snape's warning about walking alone in the halls. She felt perfectly capable of defending herself, and what could Malfoy do within the walls of Hogwarts, anyway? But Ron hadn't forgotten their run-in with Malfoy. At breakfast, he volunteered to accompany Hermione between classes. Her stomach twisted when she saw the pleading expression on his face. She could hardly refuse him—or worse, tell him that she'd really prefer Harry's company instead.  _Anyone_  else's company.   
  
After talking to Ginny she'd felt better about her decision to wait until after the Ball to break up with him, but now she wasn't so sure. Maybe it would be better to just tell him now and get it over with. He could go to the Ball with Lavender bloody Brown instead, and Hermione could stay in her room and not have to worry about Ron, or dancing, or... or who else might see her in her gown.  
  
Her cheeks were warm.  _Damn it, I have got to learn to control this._  "Thanks, Ron. I really appreciate it," she said.  
  
His grin widened. She realized that he thought she was blushing because of him—because he'd volunteered to walk with her through the halls. He thought that _that_  might bring a blush to her face. And as she found herself doing so often lately, she thought,  _Oh, Ron_. He seemed completely oblivious to the widening gulf between them.   
  
 _How can you not see that things have changed, Ron? I barely even recognize myself in the mirror, and you're acting as though nothing is different._  
  
Idol worship, Ginny had said. Hermione thought it patently ridiculous that anyone could possibly idolize her—a Muggle-born, frizzy-haired, bookworm of a girl. But Ron had somehow managed it. She sighed.   
  
"Come on, Ron. If you're going to get me to Arithmancy in time for you to make it to Herbology, we'd better leg it."  
  
—~—~—  
  
When Hermione entered the Potions classroom that afternoon, the first thing she saw was Malfoy, staring at her with a cold, hard expression. She thought uneasily that perhaps Harry and Ron— _and Snape, let's not forget him_ —were right to insist on escorting her through the halls. Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins had always been a nuisance, but nothing more than that. Easy enough to ignore. But Malfoy had developed a scary intensity over the past few weeks, ever since their altercation after Potions class.  
  
She looked away from him, avoiding eye contact, and made her way to her cauldron.  
  
Apart from Malfoy, Potions class went surprisingly well. Hermione had learned to expect Snape to be irritable and hostile the day after one of their encounters. But today he seemed to be keeping his emotions tightly buttoned down.   
  
"Today," he informed the class, his gaze sweeping over them, "you will be brewing Ridiculo potion. Who can tell me the properties of this potion?"  
  
Hermione knew, of course. It was quite a nasty potion and particularly difficult to brew. It would be good practice for N.E.W.T.s, although she saw that several of her fellow classmates looked glum. Any unfamiliar potion at this point was bound to be tricky and difficult, and from the lack of hands waving in the air, nobody else knew what this one was.   
  
She kept her eyes trained on her desk. She didn't want to call attention to herself. While that had hardly saved her in the past, she still felt it was safer to keep her head down—both literally and figuratively.  
  
After an uncomfortably long silence, Snape murmured, "Perhaps Miss... Granger might know."  
  
 _Oh, Gods._  She took half a second to forcibly calm her nerves and gather her thoughts before looking up. He was staring directly at her. She heard a faint titter from one of the Slytherins, who no doubt anticipated a repeat performance of the humiliation Snape had put her through last week.   
  
She met his gaze and held it. She willed her heartbeat to remain steady and slow, willed her breathing to remain calm and controlled.  _I am not blushing_ , she realized.  _I can do this._  
  
"Yes, sir," she said. eyes locked on his. "Ridiculo potion causes the victim to begin laughing, in fits at first and then uncontrollably. Without the antidote, the victim can quite literally laugh himself to death."  
  
She was prepared for humiliation, for mocking, for being made an example of. She expected it. But instead, he nodded slightly and said, "Indeed." She thought she saw a momentary flash of satisfaction cross his face, but it was gone before she could be sure. Then he made a quick gesture with his hand, and the formula for the potion appeared in neat lettering on the blackboard. "Proceed."   
  
Next to her, Harry muttered, "Show-off."  
  
Hermione, relieved that Snape's attention was no longer focused on her, looked at her friend quizzically. "Show-off?"  
  
"Wandless magic," Harry said. "He could have just written it like a normal person. Or told us to look it up in our potions books. Or used his  _wand_."  
  
Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Wandless magic isn't  _that_  difficult, Harry. It's hardly showing off."  
  
"Oh, yeah? Then let's see  _you_  do it."  
  
Hermione let the barest hint of a smile touch her lips and nodded her head towards her cauldron. " _Permoveo_." The wooden spoon resting inside the large black vat jerked upwards and began moving in a clockwise circle. Harry blinked.  
  
"Good for stirring," she said. "I've been practicing. Although—"   
  
She abruptly broke off. She'd been about to tell Harry that her stirring charm was far more effective than Permoveo. But she couldn't tell Harry about that. She couldn't tell anyone. Not now, not ever. She glanced at Snape out of the corner of her eye to see if he'd noticed her near-slip, but he had retreated to his usual position at his desk and appeared to be engrossed in marking papers.   
  
"Although what?" Harry said, looking down at his pile of ingredients with a scowl. "Hermione, how are we supposed to get through this thing in only an hour?"  
  
"Hm? Oh, this potion is tricky to get right but it's actually pretty quick to brew. Usually no more than 30 minutes for an experienced practitioner."  
  
Hermione had gone into book recitation mode again; this was directly from the seventh-year potions book. Harry rolled his eyes.   
  
"Do I  _look_  experienced?" he said.  
  
She affected an innocent expression. "Harry Potter, I'm sure I have no idea. I'm really not that kind of girl."   
  
He grinned and lightly punched her on the shoulder. "Uh-huh. I'm sure that's what you say to all the boys."  
  
Snape heard this entire exchange, but with iron willpower he continued pretending to mark papers.  _Let her flirt. Let her have her fun. I am above this. This does not concern me._  
  
He was almost able to make himself believe it.  
  
—~—~—  
  
By the end of the day, Hermione had stopped caring about Malfoy, only wondering how she could convince Ron that she didn't need an escort anymore. Waiting for him to show up after her classes grated on her nerves. Worse, Ron could tell that she was irritated about having to wait, so he needed constant reassurance that she wasn't irritated with  _him_ , but his insecure wheedling  _made_  her irritated with him. It was a self-perpetuating cycle, and if she didn't get away from him soon, she was going to snap and say something she'd regret later. Would  _probably_  regret later.   
  
 _Maybe it would be worth it_ , she thought darkly, giving Ron a sidelong glance. They were on their way to the Great Hall for dinner. She hadn't had a moment to herself all day, and was ready to break something.  
  
She took her usual spot next to Ron, Harry, and Ginny, but ate in silence, ignoring all efforts to draw her into the conversation. Harry and Ginny blessedly seemed to notice that she had had enough of Ron for one day, and managed to keep him from harassing her too much.   
  
She wondered how exactly she was supposed to manage to get to the dungeons that night without being noticed. Normally she simply told anyone in the Gryffindor common area that she was off to the library, and this was accepted without question. There had been more than enough evenings in the past when she  _had_  been off to the library at an unusual hour. But now Ron or Harry would certainly insist on going with her. After Potions earlier, she'd tired of waiting for Ron and started off by herself, but Harry had stopped her, saying, "Hermione, you really shouldn't go off alone."  
  
Her irritation must have shown on her face, because Harry looked apologetic and said, "I know it's annoying, but really it's just until Malfoy settles down."   
  
"It's just Malfoy," she'd said. "He's not going to try anything in  _Hogwarts_ , for Merlin's sake." But Harry wouldn't relent.  
  
And so here she was, trying to figure out how to sneak out of the tower without getting caught, something that she generally thought of as more along Harry and Ron's lines. Snape had specifically told her not to walk through the halls alone, but surely he hadn't meant for her to bring someone along to the dungeons for her Occlumency lesson. No-one else even knew about those lessons, much less the reason for them. She could make up an excuse to explain it, but… no, she'd find some other way. She'd told him that she could keep a secret, and she'd meant it. She'd get to the dungeons for her lesson. Alone.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Half an hour before the appointed time, Hermione opened the window in her room.  _This is ridiculous_ , she thought to herself. She felt like a child sneaking out of her parents' house after dark.  _I'm going to see a professor, for Merlin's sake. This is so unnecessary._  
  
But it was necessary, if she wanted her visit with Snape to remain secret. And so she pulled on her gray cloak and wrapped it tightly around herself, then took hold of her broomstick. She straddled the broomstick and raised it until she levitated a few feet above the floor.   
  
She wondered how far it was from the top of Gryffindor Tower to the ground. Eighty feet, maybe. Maybe more. She resolved not to think about it.  
  
 _Here goes._  She slowly, carefully inched her broomstick forward until she was through the window and outside the castle walls, hovering several stories above the ground below.  
  
Hermione hated flying. She kept her broomstick close to the solid stone walls, training her eyes on the castle to prevent herself from looking down.   
  
 _I can't believe I am going through this just to be abused by Snape again._  She carefully oriented her position so that she faced the proper direction, and then she set off slowly. She hoped that her gray cloak would camouflage her against the gray stones of Hogwarts, in case anyone happened to be watching. Of course, nobody was outside on the grounds at this hour, and nobody was likely to be staring out the windows, either. But it always paid to be cautious, and so she scanned the castle windows as she wobbled past. They all seemed to be deserted.   
  
Her destination was the owlery, on the far side of the castle. It took her ten minutes of slow, unsteady flying to get there; any member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team could have made it in seconds. She sighed with relief as she lighted on the solid, hay-covered floor, ignoring the owls' hoots of derision. She'd made it, unseen.  
  
Hermione kicked some hay over her broomstick to hide it; she'd need it for the return journey later. Now she only had to remain undetected as she made her way to the dungeons, several stories below. But nobody frequented this part of the castle after hours. And if she did encounter someone, it would likely be someone from another House. Someone who didn't know that she was supposed to have a constant anti-Malfoy escort. She rolled her eyes. This was all so ridiculous. She was a seventh-year witch at Hogwarts, highest marks in her class, very capable with defensive spells. She wasn't worried about Draco bloody Malfoy. Or his goon squad, for that matter.  
  
She inspected her robes for any remaining bits of hay or owl feathers, not wanting to have to explain to Snape that she'd gone on an extra-curricular broomstick ride. She could only imagine the mockery he'd make of  _that.  
  
Why am I doing this, again?_ she thought to herself. But she knew why. Their plan now rested almost solely on her ability to keep the enemy out of her mind. She sighed, and squared her shoulders, and headed for the stairs.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Hermione was on the seventh floor in a corridor approaching the staircase when she thought she heard a noise from behind her—a scraping noise, as though someone had scuffed their shoe against the stone floor. It was muffled and faint; she'd pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head in order to help disguise her appearance.   
  
She'd just lifted her hands to lower her hood, half-turning to look behind her, when her attacker struck. He grabbed her from behind, pulling her to his body tightly with one arm. With his other hand, he pointed his wand at her throat and rasped " _Silencio!_ " Hermione's throat constricted and released; the scream rising in her throat was cut off before it could emerge.  
  
She struggled against her attacker in silence. His arms were tight around her, and she couldn't shake him off. The rush of blood pounding in her head was the only thing she could hear.  _Don't panic_ , she thought to herself.  _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic._  
  
She ceased her struggles for one beat, two beats, and then twisted her body hard to the right, breaking free of her assailant's grasp. She saw as she turned that he had pale blond hair and glittering blue eyes.   
  
 _I was wrong_ , she thought wildly.  _I was wrong, and Malfoy has gone mad._  
  
Hermione hesitated for a split second, reaching for her wand instead of running. She knew instantly it had been a mistake. Malfoy seized on her moment of indecision, moved on her lightning-quick, and batted her wand out of her hand. It went clattering down the stone stairs; before she could even turn to try to retrieve it, Malfoy had his own wand out.  
  
" _Locomotor mortis!_ " he hissed. Hermione's legs locked together, frozen. Helpless, she felt herself falling. Draco only watched, grinning, as she toppled backwards and crashed onto the floor with a hard gasp of pain. She tried to use her arms to turn herself over to crawl away, but even that was beyond her capabilities.  
  
After a moment, she gave up her struggles, lying panting and winded. She looked up and saw that Draco was laughing, a low chuckle of amusement.  
  
"You can squirm if you like," he said, in a pleasant, almost conversational tone. "It's rather fun to watch, to tell you the truth." She glared up at him, but remained still.   
  
"Smart girl," he said. "But," and he tapped his wand against his chin in mock thought, "the question is, what's a smart girl like you doing sneaking down to the dungeons at this hour?"  
  
Hermione tried to scream again, but no sound emerged. Although no-one would have heard anyway, just as no-one had heard her struggles with Malfoy; that was the very reason she'd chosen this route. It was deserted. She could travel unseen.   
  
No-one would come.  
  
Draco smiled at her. "Don't worry, I'll find out." He knelt next to her and brushed her hair out of her eyes. She flinched away from his hand, and his face darkened.   
  
"I've used the Unforgivables, you know."  
  
 _He has gone mad_ , she thought, trying desperately to still her panic.  _Completely mad_.  
  
"I'd rather like to see what Cruciatus does to someone in a leg-lock. Would you like to see that?" His grin stretched out wide and wild; something inside him had come completely unhinged.  
  
Hermione held herself perfectly still, as though faced with a hissing viper.  
  
He giggled. "I guessed not. So you're going to let me touch you, you fucking Mudblood bitch."  
  
He reached out for her hair again, and this time Hermione made no effort to resist him. His hands felt cold and clammy.  _Like worms_ , she thought.  _Like crawling worms_. He stroked her cheek, and she recoiled involuntarily. He made a clucking sound with his mouth. "Bad girl," he said. "We'll remedy that later, though. Right now I think we need privacy."  
  
To Hermione's horror, a door appeared in the wall behind them. She tried to cry out " _No!_ " but her mouth only moved soundlessly, to Draco's obvious amusement. He gestured to the door and said, "Oh, that? Did you think that the Room of Requirement was exclusively a Gryffindor playground?"   
  
He cast Mobilicorpus on her; she felt her body rise and float towards the door. She knew that once she was inside, she would lose any hope of being found, and so she desperately tried to scream, to struggle, to get free. But Draco's spellcasting had been sufficient, it seemed. She was trapped.  
  
" _Please_ ," she mouthed at him silently. " _Draco, please, no_."  
  
His grin widened, shark-like and predatory. "I like that," he said. "We'll have more of that."  
  
"But first let's get you inside."


	18. Chapter 18

The Room of Requirement was bare except for a large wooden chair, placed directly in the center of the room. As Draco rotated her into a standing position, Hermione saw with rising panic that the chair had wide leather buckling straps attached to the arms and legs.  
  
"I could just leave you in a body-bind," Draco told her. She heard the deep, resonating boom of the door closing behind them. "But I think this is going to be more fun."  
  
When she was fully upright, he pointed his wand at her and pronounced, " _Finite Incantatem_." Hermione felt a tingling sensation; he'd removed the leg-lock and silencing spells. With barely a moment's hesitation, she spun away toward the door, but when she got there, she found that it was stuck firmly closed. Draco had warded it. She pulled at the latch and pounded on it, screaming, "Help, someone, please!" but the door didn't move, and she had a nasty suspicion that he'd soundproofed it as well.  
  
She turned back to face Draco, who was grinning as he watched her efforts. "Draco... what  _happened_  to you?" she said, flattening herself against the door, putting as much distance between them as possible. Draco had always been an annoying thorn in her side, but he'd never been a psychopath. Now he looked as though his mind had come completely loose from its moorings.  
  
"What  _happened_  to me?" he mimicked. "You're a smart girl, Granger. Don't you know?" And then he rolled up his sleeve and showed her. The Dark Mark, pale and profane, burned into his forearm.  
  
"Oh Gods," she whispered, "what did they do to you?"  
  
A shadow crossed his face. "Nothing  _you_  need to know about, Mudblood," he said. She pressed against the door, willing it to move, but it was hard, sturdy, unyielding.  
  
He gestured to a spot in front of the chair. "Stand here."  
  
She didn't move.  
  
His lip curled, and he said, " _Now_ , Granger," and still she didn't move. His lips thinned, and before she had time to react, he pointed his wand at her and said, " _Crucio_."  
  
Hermione's world exploded in pain. Her knees buckled and she dropped to the floor in a wrenching, agonized scream. It lasted only a second or two, but left her gasping and trembling uncontrollably. It was worse, so much worse, than when Snape had cast it on her; she realized that Snape must have held back, must have made it easier for her.  
  
She'd begged him for death. And he'd been holding back.  
  
 _I have to get out of here. Draco is going to kill me._  
  
"Stand in front of the chair, and do it now," Malfoy said, his voice wavering. His wand trembled as he pointed it at her.  
  
"All right, Draco." She spoke as she would to a child holding a sharp knife.  
  
She got to her feet slowly, carefully, buying herself time, before turning to face him in front of the chair.  
  
"Robes off," he said.  
  
 _Oh Gods no, please please no._  
  
"Please, Draco. You don't have to do this," she said.  
  
"Oh," he said, as though he were asking to borrow a quill, "did you enjoy Cruciatus?" And then with a twisted smirk, he said, "Was it as good as when Snape did it to you?"  
  
Her head snapped upward in surprise. He giggled. "Oh yes, I know all about that. And I know what you were supposed to do with him. I know  _lots_  of things, Granger."  
  
"Draco," she tried again, but he cut her off.  
  
"Robes.  _Now_."  
  
With shaking hands, she did as he said, undoing her cloak and then her school robes and letting them pool to the floor in a heap. She stood before him in her thin uniform blouse and skirt, feeling exposed and vulnerable.  
  
His eyes roamed over her body. "Nice," he said. Then he gestured with his wand to the chair and said, "Sit."  
  
Hermione hesitated.  _I can't get into the chair_ , she thought.  _If I get into the chair I'm never going to get out again._  
  
She opened her mouth to protest, to bargain with him, but before the first sound emerged from her throat, he hit her with Cruciatus again. This time it lasted for several seconds; at the end she was curled into a ball and convulsing, her breath coming in great shuddering gasps.  
  
"I'm really enjoying this, Granger. I could do this all fucking night."  
  
He lifted his wand to point at her again, and she screamed, "No, Draco, please!" and instinctively threw up her hands to protect herself. It was in that moment, with an involuntary scream escaping her throat, that she had the cold, desperate realization that she would do nearly anything to avoid that pain again.  
  
That she was going to get into the chair.  
  
"That's good," he said, when she was seated and facing him. "Very good. Now buckle your ankles into the restraints. Tightly, please."  
  
She did as he said. She could think of no alternative. The only spells she could use without a wand were utilitarian, simple spells for stirring cauldrons and ending incantations. No Expelliarmus; no Accio. Not even Wingardium Leviosa. She wondered if Snape had noticed yet that she was late to her lesson, and whether he would come looking for her.  
  
 _But he'll have no idea where I am_ , she thought with despair.  _He'll assume I stood him up._  
  
Draco fastened the buckles on her wrists, pulling each strap tight and snug. When he finished, he stared at his handiwork for a moment, his eyes glazed and bright. He stroked his fingers lightly over the backs of her bound hands. Hermione couldn't stop herself from recoiling; it felt like a dead thing stroking her hand.  
  
His face clouded when he saw her cringe from his touch. "What's wrong," he said to her, with false concern, "don't you like me?" He slid his hands up her arms, over the soft cotton of her blouse. Her skin crawled, but she made herself watch in silence. She was afraid that anything she said would only provoke him again.  
  
And then he moved his hands onto her breasts, fondling and stroking them through her thin blouse. "What about this?" he breathed, almost to himself. "Do you like this?" Hermione held herself perfectly rigid and still. Draco's lips were parted slightly and his eyes were half-lidded. "Is this what you let Weasley do?"  
  
His blue eyes were dilated and unfocused with madness and lust, making him almost unrecognizable as the Draco she knew. She wondered what hell he had been put through, what initiation, what torment, before they branded him with the Mark. She thought it must have broken him.  
  
And then she thought about Harry, and Ron, and her parents, and how badly she wanted to see them again. And about Snape, telling her not to walk unaccompanied through the halls.  _Did he know?_  she thought.  _Did he know about the Mark? Did he know that Draco has gone mad?_  
  
She realized with a stab in her chest that she desperately wanted to see Snape again as well.  
  
Draco's eyes suddenly focused, as though he were remembering where he was. Reluctantly, he withdrew his hands. "We'll come back to that later," he said. She could not suppress the shudder that swept over her.  
  
He pointed his wand at her again. "Here's how this will go. I ask you a question, and you tell me the truth, or I hurt you." He grinned. It was a rictus-like thing, pasted onto his face like he had borrowed it from someone else. Hermione closed her eyes to stop from having to look at it.  
  
"First question," he said. "How did you get to the dungeons tonight?"  
  
It took her only a split second to realize that she was going to lie to him. "I... I walked, of course."  
  
"Wrong," he said, looking smug.  
  
Hermione managed to gasp, "Draco,  _please_ ," before he struck her with Cruciatus again. He watched with avid interest while she screamed and convulsed in her restraints. Afterward, she found that tears were streaming freely down her face, humiliating and unstoppable.  
  
"Was it worse being strapped down?" he asked her, his tone indicating nothing more than curiosity.  
  
"Fuck you, Draco!" she spat back.  
  
He laughed. "We'll get to that, don't worry. Now, I think I was asking... how did you get to the dungeons tonight?"  
  
He was acting as though he knew already anyway. And she couldn't bear another round of Cruciatus while she was in this godforsaken chair. She couldn't.  
  
"I  _flew_ , all right? I flew to the owlery and walked from there! That's the truth. Draco, no, I swear it's the truth!" Her voice rose in panic as he raised his wand, but he laughed and lowered it again.  
  
"I know. I saw you."  
  
"You... what?" She looked at him with incomprehension. How could he have  _seen_  her?  
  
"I saw you. I've been keeping tabs on you for some time now, Granger. For the benefit of... certain other interested parties. Gods, you Gryffindors are so wrapped up in yourselves. You think you're the only ones with a magical map?"  
  
Hermione was stunned.  _How long has he been spying on me? And why?_  She thought about her excursions to Snape's private quarters; her late-night vigils waiting for him to come back from seeing Voldemort. Did Malfoy know about that? Her heart hammered in high panic.  
  
Certain other interested parties... that could only mean Bellatrix Lestrange. Lestrange must have told him to follow Hermione. But if Malfoy knew about her late-night visits with Snape, surely he would have told Lestrange, and Snape would likely already be dead. No, he couldn't know. He couldn't possibly. He must have got the map more recently, maybe from Lestrange at their meeting a few days prior.  _I have to tell Snape about this_ , she thought, forgetting her own situation for a moment.  _He is in mortal danger._  
  
Malfoy went on, "So tonight, when you made sure to get out of your room without anyone even knowing you were gone—very clever, by the way; I was impressed—it seemed like the perfect time to ask you some questions I've been wondering about."  
  
He pushed the tip of his wand upward into her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "That was just a practice question, though. I knew the answer to that one so it doesn't count. Next question: Why were you going to visit Snape?"  
  
Hermione felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She couldn't tell Draco the truth this time. He  _must not_  find out what she and Snape had been doing. Snape's plan rested on that.  _Everything_  rested on it. Her parents, Harry, Ron and the Weasleys, Hogwarts itself... it all hung in the balance. She could save it or destroy it, right now, in this room with Malfoy.  
  
 _I don't know if I can hold out_ , she thought, but this thought was followed immediately by another one:  _You have to. You must. You have no choice._  
  
With sudden, awful clarity, she realized that she was not likely to survive this.  
  
She lifted her chin, looked Draco directly in the eye, and answered: "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just going for a walk."  
  
Draco's eyes half-closed at this; a near-orgasmic look of pleasure spread across his face. "Excellent," he breathed, and then with barely a pause, " _Crucio_."  
  
Afterward he asked her again, and she gave the same answer, and after that Hermione wasn't quite clear what happened. She lost track of time, her world contracted into Malfoy's amused smirk and the wooden chair she was bound to and the pain, the mind-destroying, inescapable pain.  
  
"Please Draco, it  _hurts_ ," she heard herself sobbing out to her shame after the dozenth or so iteration. He giggled.  
  
"Yes, I imagine it does," he said. "Now... tell me why were you going to visit Snape."  
  
—~—~—  
  
After some amount of time had passed, Hermione became distantly aware that it had been a longer than usual period without pain. With difficult, excruciating effort, she opened her eyes. Draco had turned his back on her to... what was he doing? He swam in and out of focus, but with some concentration Hermione was able to tell that he was unbuttoning his shirt. She thought in a detached way how ironic it was that after everything he'd done to her, he was squeamish about undressing while she watched.  
  
He was talking, though. While he unbuttoned. He was saying something to her.  
  
"...thought it would be interesting to see what Cruciatus does to you while you're being fucked. Or more accurately, see what it makes you do to  _me_. What do you think, Granger?"  
  
There was something about this that she knew she should be paying attention to. Some detail. She frowned; usually she was sharper than this. She knew she was missing something, and she only had a few moments to figure it out before he finished undressing and turned his attentions to her again.  
  
Draco unbuttoning. Draco unbuttoning while he faced away from her. What was she missing? She looked at him, and looked at her hands bound in the chair, and looked at... his wand. Draco's wand. He'd put it on the floor while he took his clothes off—he was done with his shirt now and was on to his trousers—and it was so close to her chair, only a few inches away.  _Draco, you idiot, you never leave your wand on the ground_ , she thought. She'd been in the same bloody DADA class with him when they'd learned that, for Merlin's sake.  
  
 _Focus, Hermione. Come on._  
  
She looked at the wand and stretched her fingers out as far as she could, and in a gasping croak, she said, " _Permoveo_." Draco turned around, saying "What?" while simultaneously his wand leapt into the air and began moving in a clockwise circle, as though stirring a cauldron. It described a perfect circle as it danced merrily through the air, and at the perigee of this orbit, it was within a scant few millimeters of Hermione's fingers. She brushed her fingertips against it, knocking it towards herself, and then grasped it firmly in her right hand.  
  
Time seemed to stop in that instant, showing her a perfect snapshot of Draco, his face frozen in a howl of outrage, his shirt loose and unbuttoned, and his trousers halfway down to his knees, hand reaching out to grab his wand back.  
  
"No," she said to herself. "I don't think so." She pointed the wand toward him as best as she could, and as the sound and movement came roaring back to the scene, she rasped out, " _Stupefy._ " The spell arrested Draco's body in mid-lunge, collapsing him to the floor in a motionless heap.  
  
"That's going to leave a bruise," Hermione said out loud, and then started laughing and laughing; laughing with tears streaming down her face, laughing because she couldn't stop.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Draco's wand felt clumsy and awkward, but Hermione managed to undo her wrist restraints with it, and then unbuckled her ankles by hand. Her entire body was consumed with shivery convulsions. She tried to get up from the chair but her legs buckled underneath her, and she instead slithered awkwardly onto the floor. She closed her eyes for a moment, tempted beyond reason to simply lie there and let the looming darkness take over, but she knew she had to get out. She had no idea what time it was. She didn't think an entire night had passed, but it was hard to be sure.  
  
Every muscle in her body felt as though it had been twisted and wrung out like a dishcloth.  
  
She pointed Draco's wand at the giant wooden door of the Room of Requirement, undoing the wards he'd left there—rudimentary wards, thank goodness; she didn't think she had the strength to undo anything more complex. She then turned to Draco himself, still unconscious in a heap next to her. She pointed his wand at him and said " _Petrificus Totalus!_ ", watching with grim satisfaction as his legs slammed together in a full body-bind.  
  
"Stay right there," she told him.  
  
Her legs were still not functioning properly. So she dragged herself, half-crawling, to the door, and with help from Draco's wand got it open enough to wedge herself through it and into the hallway. She wanted her own wand back. Handling Draco's wand was like handling a part of Draco. Every time she cast a spell with it, it made her skin crawl.  
  
Outside the Room of Requirement, she pushed herself into a seated position and leaned back against the wall for a moment, catching her breath. She scanned the floor nearby. Her wand should be here, but she saw no sign of it. She remembered Draco knocking it out of her hand, and remembered it clattering... down the steps?  
  
She knew she had to stand up. She didn't want to be found like this, slumped against the wall. She pushed her back against the wall and then slowly, painfully, worked her way into a standing position. Her knees trembled, and she felt unsteady on her legs, but she made it.  
  
 _If I can do that, I can find my wand._  
  
She edged her way along the corridor, resting her weight against the wall, until she came to the staircase. She glanced down it and laughed bitterly. Her wand had to be at the bottom somewhere. But in her current condition, the steep stone stairs might as well have been an impassable cliffside. She leaned her head against the wall.  
  
"Are you looking for this, Miss Granger?"  
  
The voice came from behind her, startling her so badly that she shrieked and spun around with Draco's wand out in a defensive posture. But relief washed through her as she saw that it was Snape, looking down at her with a lifted eyebrow. He held her wand.  
  
She said the first thing that came into her head. "Professor Snape, I apologize for being late for my lesson," and then her knees buckled and he caught her with one arm.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape observed that the girl was weak and trembling, had red marks around both her wrists, had bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, and was holding what appeared to be Draco Malfoy's wand.  
  
"Where is he?" he asked her.  
  
"Room of Requirement," she said, her voice still hoarse.  
  
"Of course," he said. He saw that she could not walk on her own; without preamble, he draped her arm around his shoulders and supported her, in a mirror image of how she had helped him to the castle several nights before.  
  
"Thank you," she said. She gripped his shoulders and rested nearly her full weight against him. He could feel her warmth, her heat, pressed tightly against his side as they made their way towards Malfoy.  
  
"Professor Snape," she said, "he has a map."  
  
"A map?" He was half-dragging her; her legs had apparently completely failed.  
  
"Like the Marauders' Map. It's how he knew to find me."  
His pace never faltered, but he tensed slightly. "How long has he had this map?"  
  
"I don't know. I think he got it from Bellatrix when they met at the Three Broomsticks but I'm not sure. And, Professor... he has the Dark Mark."  
  
Snape was silent, this knowledge driving a spike of fear down his spine. Bellatrix suspected that he was a spy; that was clear already. But if she had engaged Draco Malfoy to track Granger, she must suspect her as well. He'd thought that Granger was above suspicion; he thought he'd adequately protected her. He glanced at the weakened, trembling girl clinging to his side.  
  
 _Clearly not._  
  
Hermione spoke again. "Professor Snape, can I ask you something about Cruciatus?"  
  
"You may."  
  
"How long does this last? The side-effects, I mean. This didn't happen after... after you did it to me."  
  
He thought there was a note of accusation there… but no matter. His actions had been necessary; he had nothing to feel guilty about.  
  
"Miss Granger, how many times did he curse you?"  
  
"I lost count after fifteen."  
  
He stopped abruptly. She'd been resting her head on his shoulder, but now lifted it to look up at him.  
  
"Fifteen," he repeated.  
  
"Yes, sir. Well, no. It was more than fifteen, but I don't know how many more. Can we... I'm sorry, can we keep walking? It's easier for me if we're moving." When she stood in place, the trembling and convulsing worsened so that even Snape's steady support was barely enough to keep her standing.  
  
"Less than that has killed more capable wizards and witches than you," he said, but resumed his pace again.  
  
She had no response, and after a brief silence, he said, "I have no experience with this level of Cruciatus. I cannot tell you how long until the after-effects subside."  
  
His gut twisted when he thought about how long she must have been screaming in agony; when he thought about how close she'd come to death.  
  
He suspected that only Malfoy's inexperience had saved her—his inexperience, and Granger's own mental fortitude. She'd managed to force him out of her mind during their first Occlumency lesson with so much power that he'd felt it as a physical blow. But even so, she was lucky to have survived an attack of this severity and duration.  
  
He felt a faint frisson of anger; anger that only luck had saved them. Anger that the girl had gone out alone when specifically instructed not to, had allowed herself to be captured and tortured. He cultivated this anger, let it grow and blossom into a fine, focused rage. Indeed, is this how she showed how serious she was about the need for secrecy? By wandering out alone, by letting herself be captured and tortured into giving up their entire plan? If she had been killed, all of that information would have gone directly to Voldemort and they'd be lost.  
  
By the time they reached the Room of Requirement, he had worked himself into high fury at the girl still clinging to his side. He embraced it, welcomed it. It allowed him to forget his uncontrollable panic when he'd found her wand after she failed to show up for her lesson; his desperation at not being able to find her; and the soft warmth of her body against his right now.  
  
No, anger was better. Anger was easier. Anger was safer.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape gained entrance to the Room of Requirement easily. Hermione asked with some surprise, "How did you manage that?"  
  
He said, "I thought about needing a place to... interrogate Malfoy."  
  
Hermione wondered at the pause, suspecting that Snape meant to do more than simply interrogate Draco, but she did not press. "Chair," she said aloud to the room, and one appeared before her, soft and padded and overstuffed. She sank into it with grateful relief. "You could have shown up a few hours ago," she murmured, but of course Draco had been in control of the room then.  
  
Snape took quick stock of the room, seeing the wooden chair with attached restraints, and Malfoy, still unconscious and Petrified on the floor. Snape's lips parted slightly, baring his teeth, as he saw that the boy was partially unclothed. "You little fuck," he said. Without looking at Hermione, he said, "Did he—"  
  
"He didn't," she said, cutting him off. "He wanted to. But I stopped him before he could."  
  
"You stopped him," he said, still staring at Draco. "While you were strapped to a chair, lacking a wand. Explain."  
  
His voice was cold and hard; Hermione instinctively knew that he was angry. With her or with Malfoy, she couldn't be sure. Probably both, she reflected.  _When is he not angry with me?_  
  
She told him about Draco's wand and Permoveo. He listened without comment, still turned away from her so that she could not see his face.  
  
"I suppose you think you're quite clever," he said.  
  
Yes; he was angry with her. But, she thought, didn't he have a right to be? Until now, she'd been so focused on surviving and then escaping that she hadn't had time to think. Hadn't had time to process. Hadn't had time to consider how much of this was her fault.  
  
"No, Professor, I don't," she said, and meant to stop at that. But once she started speaking, the words came flooding out of her, hot and unstoppable.  
  
"I was stupid," she said. He turned at this, turned to look at her face. She met his eyes, her own bright with unspilled tears. "You told me not to go out alone, but I did it anyway. I thought I'd be safe. I thought that Draco could never hurt me inside Hogwarts. I shouldn't have done it, I should have listened, because I could have ruined everything, I could have got you killed, and I almost did. I thought he was going to kill me and I'd never see anyone I loved again and it was all because I was  _stupid_ , and I'm so sorry, Professor Snape. I'm so sorry." She could not stop her voice from breaking during this, but she managed at least not to cry.  
  
His face was a mask of anger.  
  
"Oh, you're  _sorry_ ," he hissed. "Well, that certainly fixes everything, doesn't it? Am I supposed to fall on my knees in gratitude because you're  _sorry_?"  
  
"No, sir," she whispered.  
  
"I trusted you, Miss Granger." She winced at this, but he carried on, relentless, "I  _trusted_  you, and like a child that can't follow Mummy's rules, you got caught, and you gave up all of the information that I so stupidly trusted you with. If Draco Malfoy weren't a complete fucking  _moron_  who can't control his own wand, all of that information would be on its way to the Dark Lord right now, so don't sit there and  _apologize_  as though it magically makes everything all right."  
  
She had gone white. A small voice in his mind said,  _She doesn't deserve that_. He ignored it; if the girl wanted someone to soothe her and comfort her, she'd have to get it elsewhere. He was neither capable nor qualified for it.  
  
He was turning away from her in disgust when he heard her say, "Professor Snape, I didn't give Draco any information."  
  
He went still.  
  
"Don't insult my intelligence," he said, turning back to her and staring down his nose. "You endured Cruciatus for over an hour by my calculation. No-one could withstand that without breaking."  
  
"I swear it. I didn't tell him anything."  
  
He stared at her with flat disbelief.  
  
"If you couldn't break me, Professor," she said softly, "what makes you think that Draco could?"  
  
He had the distinct sensation that a knife had just slid into his gut. It was only his years of experience in Voldemort's circle that allowed him to maintain his composure. He heard himself saying, "Explain to me exactly what you said to him."  
  
She swallowed and closed her eyes, steeling herself. She fixed her eyes on a spot on the wall behind him, her fingers dug into the soft surface of her chair as though she were afraid of falling.  
  
"He asked me how I got to the dungeons, and first I lied and said I walked, but he didn't believe me. He Crucioed me and then he asked me again, and this time I told him the truth, that I'd used my broomstick to fly to the owlery and walked from there. He said that he already knew, because he had a magical map."  
  
She paused, drawing up her strength. He said, "Continue," and she nodded.  
  
"He asked me why I was coming to visit you in the dungeons, and I told him I was just going for a walk. And then he Crucioed me and asked me again, and I gave him the same answer. And then he cursed me over and over again, but I just kept saying the same thing. I lost track after a while, but I know that eventually he stopped even bothering to ask the question. Then he started taking his clothes off because he was going to..." She faltered in her retelling for the second time. He saw her knuckles go white where they gripped the chair. "Well... anyway... that's when I got his wand."  
  
She met his eyes. "Professor, I swear to you that's all I said."  
  
He found his rage fading away like a flower wilting in the hot sun; he simply could not maintain it any longer. She'd withstood an interrogation that should have killed her, and she'd done it without breaking. She'd done it to protect  _him_.  
  
A moan came from the floor; it was Draco, regaining consciousness. Snape looked down at Lucius' son, reflecting that the apple clearly hadn't fallen far from the tree.  _I could kill you right now_ , he thought.  _It would be so easy for me._


	19. Chapter 19

Hermione watched in silence as her Potions professor released Draco from the body-bind and then roughly dragged him up and into the wooden chair that she herself had occupied not so long earlier. It occurred to her that she might be about to watch Professor Snape kill Draco right in front of her; she thought he was probably capable of it.   
  
Before, she would have protested, told Snape to take mercy on him. Because that was the right thing to do. Now she only had a flat, detached curiosity, wondering whether Snape would prefer to use Avada Kedavra or something more drawn-out.  
  
Draco was still recovering from the effects of being Stupefied; he looked at Snape in confusion, not quite able to understand what he was seeing, and then looked past Snape to Hermione, sitting in a chair a few feet away. Hermione reflected that it would have been almost comical in another situation, watching his head pivot back and forth between them as though he were watching a tennis match with an invisible ball.  
  
Snape, holding his wand on Malfoy, waited until the light of recognition dawned in the boy's eyes. "It's true! Everything she told me was true!" he said, rising from the chair.   
  
Snape clicked his tongue chidingly. "Tsk, tsk, Draco." He pressed the tip of his wand into the boy's chest and forced him back into a seated position.  
  
"Have we been talking to dear Aunt Bellatrix?" the Potions professor asked. His tone was soft, pleasant, conversational. Hermione knew that tone; knew that it was Snape's serpentine way of lulling his victim into complacency before striking. She wondered if Draco did.  
  
"Go fuck yourself, Mudblood-lover," Draco spat back. His eyes flickered toward Hermione briefly and then back to Snape, who did not even twitch in response. Then with a sickly grin, "Is that what you're doing? Fucking her? Is she good? I didn't get to it myself, but I think she was really looking forward to it. Weren't you, Mudblood?" He turned his grin toward her, the same awful thing that had blighted his face during the interrogation.   
  
Hermione was faintly alarmed that she felt nothing in response to Draco's taunting. She thought that she should feel angry, or violated, or... or  _something_. But instead she only waited to see what Snape would do.  
  
 _Maybe this is when he kills him._  
  
Snape watched Malfoy with what appeared to be cold amusement. "Are you quite finished, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"The famous Malfoy charm, I see. I'll take that as a yes. Now, you have a choice to make. You can either submit to Legilimency, and afterward have this entire incident Obliviated from your pathetic little mind. Or you can endure the same duration and severity of torment to which you subjected Miss Granger... and then I'll pry the information out of your head and Obliviate you anyway."  
  
Draco balled his hands into fists and looked for a moment as though he were going to try to get up again, but Snape shook his head nearly imperceptibly and let the barest hint of a smile cross his face. Draco sank back into the chair. His eyes darted from side to side like a trapped animal's.   
  
"Strap him in," Hermione heard herself saying. The sound of her own voice was strange and foreign, as though someone else were speaking. "If you're going to curse him, strap him in. Like I was."  
  
Without turning around, Snape said, "An excellent suggestion, Miss Granger."  
  
Draco snarled in Hermione's direction, "Fuck you too."  
  
"You had your chance," she said.  
  
"Time runs short, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said. His wand never varied, never wavered, from where he held it. The tip barely touched Malfoy's chest. "Legilimency, or Cruciatus. Your choice."  
  
Draco's lip quivered. "You're going to pay. When my father finds out—"  
  
Snape withdrew his wand briefly from Draco's chest and said " _Incarcerous_." Ropes flew from the end of his wand, encasing each of Draco's wrists and binding them to the arms of the chair. The boy yelped in surprise and struggled to free himself, but the ropes were tight, inescapable.  
  
"Leather straps. So...  _jejune_ ," Snape said.   
  
He aimed his wand directly between Draco's eyes, but just as he was drawing breath to speak, Draco shrieked, "No! No, don't! You can do it, all right? Legilimens me!  _Please!_ " He worked desperately against the ropes and flinched from Snape's wand, his breath hitching and gasping as he struggled.   
  
"Such admirable devotion to the cause, Mr. Malfoy." Malfoy slumped in his chair, braggadocio and defiance gone.  
  
Snape brought his wand forward until it touched Malfoy's forehead.   
  
" _Legilimens_."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Malfoy's mind was less well-ordered than Granger's was; Snape found that all of his memories were twisted and tangled together like sticky threads in a giant knotted ball. Scenes from Draco's life flashed past as he searched: petty torments directed at Potter and Weasley, Christmas dinner at Malfoy Manor, being unfaithful to Pansy Parkinson with several other Slytherin girls... Snape sighed in irritation. Irrelevant, all of it. But then... yes, he caught a glimpse of Bellatrix Lestrange. Yes. This is what he sought. Slowly, painstakingly, he followed that thread all the way to its source.  
  
Bellatrix and Draco were together at the Three Broomsticks; this must be the meeting Granger had witnessed in part. Lestrange bent over Malfoy with what she likely thought was a friendly smile plastered across her hawk-like, angular features. "Use the map," she said to him in a loud hiss, sounding uncannily like her lord and master.  
  
"Use the map to watch the girl. Mark my words ( _wordsss_ ), she'll go to his rooms. There's something not  _right_  between them. He's  _lying_  to us, boy, and it has something to do with  _her_ , with the  _girl_. Get her alone and ask her.  _Make_  her tell you." Her grin widened into a gleaming predatory maw. She leaned closer to Draco; her hair tickled his face. "You'll like that, won't you?"  
  
Snape could hear Draco's thoughts, frightened and confused:  _Granger is smarter, Granger is better, I can't do it, I have to do it but I can't do it, hate Granger want Granger don't know what to do…_  
  
"Yes, but Aunt Bella... what if she won't talk?"  
  
She'd cackled then, the high piercing laugh that Hermione had heard from across the tavern. "Oh, she will, Draco my love.  _Everyone_  talks under Cruciatus. You know all about casting  _that_ , don't you?"  
  
Draco's thoughts turned to the night of his Death Eater initiation. His father had thrown a Dark Revel to celebrate, and Draco had been "encouraged" to participate in the rape and torture of several Muggle women. It was the first time he'd cast an Unforgivable. After casting the first Cruciatus and seeing its effects on his victim, he'd nearly vomited. But he had been made to cast it again and again, over and over that night, slowly destroying the victims' minds and sanity, and every time it became easier for him. By the end of the evening he'd found that he was almost enjoying himself. The festivities culminated with Lucius directing Draco to cast the Killing Curse on his final victim. He'd hesitated, but refusal was hardly an option.   
  
And it was just a Muggle, after all.   
  
After he'd done it, left her body a lifeless jumble of bruised and bloodied limbs, a roar had gone up from the surrounding Death Eaters and he'd felt his body practically thrum with power. Voldemort had grinned at him. " _Good_ , issn't it, boy?" he'd hissed, and Draco had thought  _oh Gods yes, so very good_.  
  
Still, though… casting an Unforgivable on some Muggle woman plucked off the street was one thing. Casting it on a Hogwarts classmate... on one of Potter's best friends, no less… risky. Then again, Draco thought, that might make it more enjoyable. And maybe after he'd broken her, he could get the Mudblood bitch to spread her legs for him...  
  
Bellatrix giggled madly, watching Draco's thoughts plainly broadcast on his face. "You see, you'll have  _fun_. Get the girl alone and find out what she's doing with her...  _professor_." She spat the word like a curse. "Can you do that for Aunt Bella, Draco?"  
  
Draco's lip curled into a smirk. "Yes. I think I can do that."  
  
Snape lowered his wand and withdrew from Draco's mind, having got what he'd come for. The boy stared at him, dazed, and then opened his mouth to say something—exactly what, Snape would never know. Before Malfoy could make a sound, Snape said, " _Obliviate_."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape loosened the restraints and pulled Malfoy up out of the chair. He offered no resistance, his face slack and blank. Snape took him by the elbow and propelled him to the door. He turned to Hermione before leaving.  
  
"Stay here. I shall return shortly."  
  
She gave him a wan smile. "Yes, sir. Don't worry, I won't be crawling off on my own anywhere." She could feel sensation returning to her legs, though; she hoped that meant the strength was returning as well.  _Maybe I'll be able to walk back to my room tonight after all._  It was an encouraging thought.   
  
Snape only lifted an eyebrow and said, "See that you don't." He frog-marched Malfoy out the door with him. As it swung shut, with a solid, satisfying boom, Hermione leaned her head back onto the soft padded chair and closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she thought. Just until Professor Snape comes back.  
  
—~—~—  
  
"Miss Granger.  _Miss Granger._ "  
  
Hermione was vaguely aware that someone was saying her name. Saying it more than once.  
  
She opened her eyes, then sat up with a start. "Professor Snape! I'm sorry, sir; I didn't mean to fall asleep."  
  
He didn't respond, only fixing her with an intent stare.   
  
"Where is Draco?"  _Please stop staring at me._  
  
"House Slytherin. As far as he is concerned, his map showed nothing out of the ordinary tonight. He remembers giving up on it shortly before going to bed early."  
  
"So he's just been reset to how he was earlier today. He'll still be trying to catch me out alone, won't he?"  
  
"Perceptive as usual, Miss Granger." Snape folded his arms and looked down his nose at her. "I trust you will take my advice to use an escort through the halls for now."  
  
"Yes, sir," she said. "I'm… I'm sorry, sir."   
  
"The fault is mine," he said. "I… failed to anticipate your need for secrecy. You need not apologize to  _me._ "  
  
Somewhere deep inside herself, Hermione felt intense gratitude for this kindness, suspecting it had come at great cost to her professor. But in her present condition she was incapable of responding other than to blink, surprised. She changed the subject instead, asking, "Professor, what did you find out? Does he know? About the plan?"   
  
Hermione waited for Snape to respond with sarcasm, to berate her for inappropriate curiosity.   
  
 _I can take that_ , she thought.  _I can take anything now._  
  
Instead he only lifted an eyebrow and said, "Can I trust you, Miss Granger?"  
  
Unspoken depths of accusation lay in his question. She bristled at first, the words  _How dare you_  on the tip of her tongue. But she caught them back. She thought about the man standing in front of her: the man who had worked as a double-agent for twenty years, the man who had survived by trusting only himself. The man whose trust she had nearly betrayed once already this evening.  
  
She met his eyes. "Yes," she said. "Yes, you can."  
  
He bowed his head slightly in assent.  _That was enough for him_ , Hermione thought with a trace of shame.  
  
"I do not believe that either he or Bellatrix Lestrange knows about our plan," he told her.  _Our plan_ , she thought.  
  
"But she does suspect strongly that I am hiding something. Further, that I am… colluding with you, Miss Granger. That is why she directed Malfoy to capture and interrogate you."  
  
"But she can't prove it?" Hermione asked.  
  
"If she could prove it, you and I would not be having this conversation."  
  
Hermione blinked and nodded, reminded again of the stakes they were playing for.  
  
"And now, Miss Granger, I must Obliviate you as well."  
  
Her head snapped upward. "What? No! No, you can't! That's insane, Professor. How can I protect myself if I don't remember what happened?" She knew that she sounded hysterical, but could not stop herself. Had he lost his mind?  
  
And then Snape lunged toward her in what looked almost like a fencer's feint. Hermione screamed, threw her hands up defensively in front of her face, and drew her legs up, curling into a protective ball. After a moment, she lowered her hands cautiously to see that Snape had withdrawn to a few feet away, watching her with a neutral expression on his face.  
  
"Tell me," he said, "how would you explain a reaction like that to one of your friends?"  
  
She knew that he was right. Her reaction had been instantaneous, involuntary. What if Ron went to grab her playfully, or someone jokingly pointed a wand at her in class?   
  
"You have been traumatized," he said. "You will not be able to hide the signs of that trauma. The only solution is to Obliviate the incident from your mind, inconvenient though that may be."  
  
He did not care for the idea of Obliviating the girl, either; his preference was to leave her mind untouched, intact. But they were still two weeks from being able to activate the firedrake potion. They could not have other students and professors asking questions about what had happened to their star Gryffindor. Her condition would be noticed, remarked on, inquired into. Lestrange was already too close. Obliviation was the only choice.  
  
Watching her face, he saw that she had come to the same conclusion. He lifted his wand.  
  
"Professor, wait," she said. Her eyes glinted; it was the only expression other than flat dispassion or terror she'd had on her face since he'd found her in the hallway earlier.   
  
"How precise are you?" she said. "With Obliviation, I mean."  
  
He cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"I am  _very_  precise, Miss Granger."  
  
"Can you remove only the memory of the pain, but nothing else? Leave in Draco capturing me, and what he did, but take away the memory of how Cruciatus felt?"  
  
He considered this. He had to admit that it was not a bad idea. She'd remember what happened and would understand the necessity for protecting herself, would understand exactly what Malfoy was capable of. But it would remove the trauma and the pain. It would be difficult, yes; most wizards would say that Obliviation to that degree of precision was impossible.  
  
But he wasn't most wizards.  
  
"Do not move," he told her. She took a deep breath and then stilled her body.  _Remarkable_ , he thought. It was as though a Granger-shaped statue were sitting across from him; he could not detect even a hint of the trembling that had coursed through her body earlier.   
  
He met her eyes, probing into her mind and finding the memories in question. Unlike Legilimency, he was not inside the memories. He merely watched from outside, identifying his target with care and precision, finding its outlines, tracing its structure. Yes… he saw her torture, and he saw her pain. Two memories interlaced, nearly the same thing. But only nearly. He could tease them apart; he could find the separation. The torture on one side, the pain on the other.   
  
Hermione held Snape's gaze without blinking. The two were motionless, silent, barely even breathing. Hermione found with some surprise that she was calm, unafraid. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement; Snape raising his wand. She felt the tip of the wand press against her temple.   
  
 _I trust you_ , she thought. And then he whispered, " _Obliviate_." She felt a buzzing sensation, and then... she blinked.   
  
Snape watched her for any sign. A change in expression or posture. Anything.   
  
She looked down at her own body as though surprised to find it there; then she looked up at him. He felt the lines of tension in his own face ease as a smile spread across her face.  
  
"It's gone," she said. The relief and delight radiated from her; he could almost feel it. "It's all gone."  
  
"What do you remember?" he said, folding his arms over his chest.  
  
She unfocused her eyes, recollecting. "I remember Draco dragging me in here," she said, "and I remember him strapping me down and cursing me to try to get me to talk, and I remember getting his wand and escaping. And," she finished, "I remember you finding me."  
  
"Cruciatus?" he asked.  
  
She shook her head. "I remember it, but it's like it happened to someone else. The pain is... it's just gone. And I remember how I felt, afterward…"   
  
She stopped. She'd been about to tell him that she remembered not caring whether Draco lived or died, but as she was about to speak, she realized that this was still true.  _I could do it myself_ , she thought.  
  
Not necessary to share that with Snape, she decided. "I remember not caring afterward. Not caring about anything. But that part is gone too. I feel like I'm myself again. More myself, anyway."  
  
Snape, against his better judgment, felt a certain sense of smug satisfaction. He'd Obliviated her perfectly. Too bad he couldn't tell anyone about it.  
  
"You should be back in your room, Miss Granger. I will accompany you to Gryffindor Tower."  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "What about Malfoy's map? He'll know we're together. Won't he wonder why we're both coming from the Room of Requirement?"  
  
A smile twisted his lips upward. "I think Mr. Malfoy will find that his map is no longer quite as... useful as it once was." Snape had taken it from Malfoy's pocket while the boy was still dazed from Obliviation. It had been the work of a moment to enchant the map so that it now showed Lavender Brown's location, marked as  _Granger_. Malfoy might figure it out eventually, but it would buy them some time.   
  
 _And he might_ not  _figure it out. Bellatrix chose rather a dull knife as her tool._  
  
"Professor, what about my Occlumency lesson?" she asked.  
  
His eyebrows shot up. He wondered at first if this were her idea of a joke. But no, he could see that she wasn't joking.  _H. Granger, hoping for extra credit_ , he thought.  _Unbelievable._  
  
But… she did have a point. Malfoy would be unable to get his hands on her, so Bellatrix might feel it was time to send someone more capable. Or attempt to bring Granger in on her own. The girl had withstood Cruciatus without breaking, but as bad as it had been for her, it had been performed by an inept child. The Death Eaters in Voldemort's court were neither children nor inept. And many were skilled at Legilimency. The girl needed to strengthen her defenses.  
  
"Tomorrow," he said. "And Miss Granger," he said, "let us not have another night like this one." He fixed her with an intent gaze that made her redden and look away.  
  
"No, sir," she said. "But—"  
  
He anticipated her question. "I'll make arrangements for you tomorrow. Be in your room at 7:45.  _Alone_ , please."   
  
She could see from his face that questions would not be appreciated. "Yes, Professor," she said. He nodded then and escorted her into the hallway. The door to the Room of Requirement closed behind them. Hermione reflected that she was quite glad she would never see that particular version of the room again.  
  
She wondered what he'd meant by "arrangements."


	20. Chapter 20

In the Great Hall the next morning, Draco stared at her, grinning. Sneering, really. It gave her a jolt.  _He shouldn't be able to remember_ , she thought, and then realized that he didn't remember at all. He wasn't grinning because he remembered what he'd done to her; he was grinning in anticipation of what he thought he was going to do to her soon.  
  
She shivered.  
  
 _Try it if you like, Draco_ , she thought. She'd arranged escorts between all of her classes. If Draco tried anything, he'd have to get through Harry or Ron (or both of them) first. He wouldn't take her off-guard again.   
  
She wondered with some unease how Bellatrix Lestrange would react to the news of Draco's failure. She'd got into Hogwarts once; what would stop her from doing it again?   
  
Well. Two more weeks. They only had to make it two more weeks. Less now, really.   
  
"You're awfully quiet this morning, Hermione." It was Ginny, across the table as usual.  
  
Hermione wondered what to tell her.  _Draco Malfoy tried to rape and kill me yesterday but it's OK because I escaped in time and Professor Snape Obliviated him._  
  
She thought not. She suppressed a sigh and wondered if she'd ever be able to talk honestly to her friends again.  
  
"Just thinking about N.E.W.T.s," she said, feigning interest in her breakfast.  
  
Ginny smiled. There was a glint in her eye. "Oh, is that it? I thought it might be something else."  
  
Hermione realized, a split second before snapping her head up to ask what the hell Ginny thought she was talking about, that of course her friend was talking about the Ball. Just a few days away now. Ron, sitting next to her, seemed oblivious as always, deeply engrossed in his black pudding. Just as well, considering. She had no idea what Ginny was playing at. Maybe she'd ask her later... but no, she had a lesson with Snape later. No time for girlish chit-chat tonight.   
  
She felt a surge of frustration; she hadn't asked to be thrust into this situation. She hadn't asked to play a role in a secret plot to assassinate Lord Voldemort. She hadn't wanted any of this. All she'd wanted was to have her research proposal reviewed.  
  
 _Well, that's what happens in war, I suppose._  She just wished that she had some friends to share the burden.  
  
 _And no_ , she thought, stabbing an egg with her fork,  _Snape definitely does not count._  
  
—~—~—  
  
Hermione found that she had less and less interest in what she was starting to think of as her "useless" classes: anything other than Potions, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Herbology, Arithmancy, and Divination had no relevance to her life at the moment. She was smart enough and practiced enough that she was still doing quite well in them, but she felt sure that her professors had noticed her comparatively lackluster performance.   
  
 _Well, let them notice_ , she thought.  _In two weeks they'll know why._    
  
That afternoon when she entered the Potions classroom and saw Professor Snape, her heart skipped a beat. She was used to this reaction now, had stopped even feeling guilty about it. Seeing him caused an entire chain reaction of physiological responses: irregular heartbeat, increased breathing rate, flushed cheeks. She found that using Occlumency helped; she could slow her heart rate and her breathing with concentration. So that nobody would realize that she was behaving like some kind of ridiculous lovestruck schoolgirl.  
  
 _Well, isn't that what you are?_  came the treacherous voice in her head. But she shut it down, as she'd done a hundred times before and would do a hundred times again.   
  
 _No. I may be a schoolgirl but I'm certainly not in love, and if my heart beats faster when I see him, that's to be expected; we've been through quite a bit together. That's all. It doesn't mean anything._  She quieted her mind and slowed her heart rate, barely noticing how easy this was for her now, and went about the daily Potions assignment.   
  
Later on in the Gryffindor common room, Ron wanted to chat about the Ball, and Ginny wanted to chat about Harry, and Harry wanted help with his Charms work. None of them can see that I have put on a false Hermione-face over the top of my real one, she thought. None of them can see that I am hiding in here from them.  
  
She found herself looking forward to visiting Snape that evening. At least in his presence she could be herself. Being herself with someone who fundamentally disliked her was much better than being with people who liked a false version of her.   
  
She thought of her racing heart in the Potions classroom and sighed, and wondered if anything in her life would ever make sense again.  
  
—~—~—  
  
That night, she sat on the edge of her bed at 7:40. Five minutes early. She wondered if Snape were going to come and get her personally, and stifled a snort of laughter at the thought of him sweeping through the Gryffindor common room in his black robes, snarling at everyone in his path. But no, he'd never want to draw attention to himself. (And to her... to himself  _with_  her.) So what was it to be? No one except another Gryffindor or a professor would be able to get into the tower.  
  
She crossed her ankles together, then uncrossed them. She smoothed her robes down over her lap. She considered checking her hair in the mirror and then dismissed that as foolish. No time anyway; it was 7:44. She watched the door.   
  
As the second hand of her clock swept past the 12, she heard a small pop behind her. She leapt up and spun around in surprise, to find a small, grinning house elf standing in front of her hearth, holding out his elbow in a jaunty pose. "Miss Hermione!" the elf said, "I is Melvin!"   
  
"M... Melvin?" she asked, and then recovered. "I'm pleased to meet you, Melvin."  
  
He beamed at her but then drew his eyebrows together, looking fierce. "Master Snape sends me to fetch Miss Hermione! Keep her safe. Some bad people at Hogwarts want to hurt Miss Hermione."  
  
"He sent you, did he?" Hermione said, suppressing her instinctive disapproval of this sort of thing.   
  
Melvin nodded, his already-large eyes widening as he spoke. "Master Snape sent me himself! Master Snape is good to house-elves. Always very good! It is an honor for Melvin to serve him!"  
  
Hermione blinked. She was tempted to explain to Melvin that he didn't need to serve  _anyone_ , but she supposed that this was hardly the time. And she couldn't bear to disappoint him, anyway. He looked so eager and excited. She sighed and took his still-extended elbow in her arm. He felt warm to the touch, warm enough that if he were a human she'd have said he was feverish. She wondered if all house-elves were this warm. It occurred to her that she had never actually touched one before.   
  
"Well, Melvin," she said, "are you to be my escort to the dungeons?"   
  
His grin threatened to engulf his entire face. "Oh yes, Miss Hermione. You could say that!"  
  
She opened her mouth to ask what he meant by that, but before she could speak, she felt the gut-wrench of Apparation turning her inside out, and in a whirl, the world dissolved.  
  
—~—~—  
  
They appeared inside the familiar confines of Snape's private office. Snape stood waiting for them, his hands clasped behind his back, face impassive.   
  
"Any problems, Melvin?" he said. Hermione watched; Snape made eye contact with the elf, and spoke in a serious tone.   
  
"No, Master Snape! Melvin does not see anyone bad. Melvin brings Miss Hermione here safely!"  
  
Snape inclined his head. "Indeed. Thank you, Melvin. You may go now."  
  
The elf could not have looked more deliriously happy. "I is always pleased to serve Master Snape!" And then with a furtive little wave at Hermione, he popped back out of existence.  
  
Hermione, still disoriented from Apparition, looked up at Snape, wanting to ask him why the house elf seemed to like him so much. Before she could, he raised his wand and said, " _Legilimens_."  
  
She staggered backwards, but caught herself. She could feel him in her mind, rifling through her memories; his touch was light this time, but unmistakable. Quick images of the past few weeks flashed through her mind; he was looking for something.   
  
 _No_ , she thought.  _Not this time_. She focused her concentration, felt her heart rate and breathing slow, felt the snow fall in her mind, descending like a stage curtain over her thoughts, protecting them, keeping them from exposure. Just as before, the memories Snape had been searching for faded out, faded to white. Her eyes were locked with his, but there were no thoughts for him to read, nothing for him to grasp hold of in her mind. Nothing.  
  
After a while—she could not say how long—he withdrew, never allowing his eyes to leave her face.  
  
"That was... adequate," he said.   
  
It took her a moment to find her voice, to tell him, "Thank you, Professor." She was suddenly aware of how near she was to him, only inches away, and took a half-step backward.  
  
"No." She froze, mid-step, looking at him uncertainly. "Stay where you are," he said.   
  
Proximity was not strictly necessary. But forcing her to remain so close would keep her on guard, would help sharpen her senses. And made Legilimency easier, of course. She was so close that he could see each individual strand of her hair curling around her face. He quelled the temptation to reach out and brush one of them away where it had fallen across her forehead.   
  
"You have proven capable of dismissing your existing thoughts to protect them from a Legilimens," he told her. She absorbed this in silence, ever an attentive student.   
  
He went on, "You must now learn how to show the Legilimens a memory of your own construction, so that he does not know you are Occluding. This memory must resemble your real memories precisely. You must project not only images, but also feelings, emotions, associated memories. Everything you would normally broadcast when not Occluding. Am I clear?"  
  
"Yes, sir."   
  
"We will begin simply. I am going to explore your memory of earlier this evening, when you walked here from your room."  
  
He watched to see if she understood. "But," she began, and then comprehension dawned in her eyes. "...oh," she said. "Yes."  
  
" _Legilimens_."  
  
He slid into her mind again. She reflexively allowed her thoughts to go blank and white but then remembered that she was supposed to project a false memory. She summoned up an image of herself walking down the stairs, of the stone walls of the dungeon, the smell of the air, the way her steps echoed on the floor. She imagined herself arriving outside Snape's door and knocking.  
  
He pulled out of her mind abruptly. As soon as the contact was broken, her body slumped slightly. The effort had been more taxing than she'd realized.  
  
"Juvenile and ineffective," Snape said. "You must do this without thinking about the fact that you are creating a false memory. You must be detailed. You must be  _precise_. Again."  
  
Her second effort was deemed equally unacceptable, as was the third, and the fourth, and the fifth.   
  
After several more attempts, she said, "Sir, please, I think I'm getting  _worse_ , not better."  
  
He let his eyes travel over her, saw her trembling jaw, her pale face, her bloodshot eyes. He was pushing her hard, punishing her, and she was right; she wasn't improving. Time and practice had led her to mastery of the first level of Occlumency, and unusually quickly at that. She could undoubtedly master this one as well, given even just a little time and rest.   
  
In his mind he heard her voice, over and over:  _If you couldn't break me, what makes you think Draco could?  
  
Watch me_, he thought.  _See what I am capable of._  
  
"If you cannot continue," he said, "you may go."   
  
Her eyes narrowed. "I can continue," she said, just as he'd suspected she would. But she couldn't last indefinitely. He would prevail. He would  _make_  her give up.  
  
"Again, then." He stared into her eyes, bright and wide, and descended through them into her mind again.  
  
It occurred to him, some time later, that what he was doing to her could legitimately be considered torture. She was exhausted beyond reason, barely able to manage any sort of coherent image at all in her mind. She was an open book for him to read if he so chose.  
  
Yet she remained, putting up her weak and battered mental defenses only for him to pierce through them and thrust into her mind over and over again.  _Break, goddamn you_ , he thought.  _Break, and I'll stop._  
  
But she would not. "Again," he said, noting how she flinched at the word. This time, as he probed her mind, her knees buckled and she pitched forward, bracing herself against his chest. The feel of her hands against his body sent a near-electric shock through him. He hissed sharply; she'd have heard it if she weren't half-gone. But she did not even appear to notice she was leaning on him, her weight pressed against him.   
  
He withdrew from her mind, and with obvious effort she focused on his face. "I won't give up," she said. Her voice was flat, tired. "If that's what you're trying to make me do, it won't work."  
  
Her eyes were heavy and half-lidded, her cheeks flushed. A surge of desire swept through him that made his knees weak.  _Fuck. Control yourself, Severus. Control._  
  
"Do not presume," he told her, in a voice as tight and controlled as he could manage, and then, "Again."  
  
She moaned a little this time, and he felt satisfaction flooding his body.  _I can make you give up. I can break you. You have no power over me._  
  
But she would not break. She didn't ask him for a rest; she didn't try to leave; she didn't even protest. She simply endured—endured assault after assault into her mind while she pressed against him, sometimes gasping, sometimes moaning, but never calling "enough," never telling him to stop.   
  
Snape was at the point of exhaustion himself some time later when the girl suddenly grew heavier, became a dead weight against him. She had lost consciousness.  _Congratulations_ , he thought to himself,  _you've done what Draco Malfoy couldn't even do with Cruciatus._  
  
He felt hollow, unsatisfied. He had no control when it came to this girl. No control at all. He'd meant for this to be a simple Occlumency lesson, not a bitter contest of wills.  
  
 _A contest that I apparently lost_ , he thought, looking down at Granger, collapsed against him. He held her up with one arm wrapped around her body, her mass of chestnut curls splayed against the fabric of his robes. He stood there holding her for a moment, and then knew what he was going to do. He would be damned if he entrusted her safety to anyone else tonight. If she asked later, he'd tell her that he'd summoned the elf to take her back.  
  
He cast an invisibility charm about himself, and then swept her up into his arms, to carry her all the way to Gryffindor Tower. 


	21. Chapter 21

Hermione woke the next morning to an owl tapping insistently at the glass of her window. She was disoriented, and for a moment she could not remember where she was. She cast her mind back to the last thing she remembered... and then sat bolt upright in bed. Snape. She'd been with Snape. She looked around; this was definitely her own room. But how had she got here? She threw off the bedclothes and inspected herself; she was still in her school uniform, but her robes had been removed and hung neatly to the side.  
 _House elf_ , she thought.  _Only a house elf would be so meticulous._  
  
She must have fainted. The last thing she remembered was Snape pushing into her mind again and thinking to herself that he could bloody well kill her before she'd admit to him that she'd had enough. She wondered if her collapse had given him a good fright at least, and hoped rather vindictively that it had.  
  
The owl glared at her through the glass.  
  
"Sorry," she said to it, even though she knew it couldn't hear her. She opened the pane and let it fly in to deposit a rolled-up scroll. She was just about to tell it that she was sorry she didn't have any treats when it flapped off again. "Well, fine then," Hermione said to its back as it went. It must have come from nearby if it didn't need any more of a rest than that. She unrolled the note. The words on it were written in a tall, spiky hand:  
  
 _Miss Granger,  
  
Continue to practice. No lesson tonight. I have an errand. Do not attempt to meet me afterward.  
  
—SS_  
  
As soon as her eyes reached the end of the note, the ink turned red and flowed together on the page, running off the ends into little showers of sparks and leaving nothing but a blank white paper in front of her. "That's fine," she said to it. "I was going to throw you in the fire anyway. In fact, I still might."  
  
She wondered what errand Snape was going on; likely he was off to see Voldemort again. She hadn't inquired as to the progress of their plan lately, although she supposed there was nothing much to report. Either the potion was working or it wasn't, and there would be no real way to tell which it was until someone invoked Finite Incantatem on Voldemort. Only a week and a half left. If she'd felt bold—and stupid—she'd have started crossing off days on a calendar to mark the time. As it was, the knowledge of exactly how long until the potion became effective was constantly in her mind. She wondered if it were the same for Snape.  
  
Continue to practice, he'd told her. As though she had any idea of what that even  _meant.  
  
Why aren't you more angry with him_, she asked herself.  _You should be furious._  
  
She turned this over in her mind, analyzing it.  _I trust him_ , she thought. She trusted him not to hurt her unnecessarily. As bad as last night had been, she'd known she could leave at any time if she chose, and he wouldn't have stopped her. But that still didn't explain why she wasn't more angry.  
  
 _Come on_ , she thought.  _You know why. And if you had half the brains that people say you do, you'd have admitted it to yourself ages ago.  
  
It's because you want him._  
  
It was the first time she'd allowed herself to even think it. Not that it made any difference, she told herself. She'd keep it tucked into a deep, hidden corner of her mind. She needn't even worry about Snape prying it out of her against her will; she could snow him out if he tried. He wouldn't find out, and she'd eventually manage to forget about it, so it was really completely irrelevant. Not worth thinking about. Except as an explanation for why she wasn't more angry at her professor for his behavior the night before.  
  
Practice. Wednesday mornings were free for Hermione; she usually skipped breakfast in favor of getting additional studying in, but Arithmancy could wait for now. She sat on her bed, folded her legs into a lotus position, and breathed in deeply.  
  
She would first remember exactly what it was like to walk to the dungeons, every nuance, every detail. She would remember it exactly (she heard Snape's voice in her mind saying  _you must be precise_ ) and when she had it in her mind, perfect to the last detail, then she would re-create it, replaying it in her mind again and again until it was familiar as an old glove. Until she could summon it on command. Until it was as real as the room in front of her.  
  
She had three hours until her next class, and she intended to use every minute of it.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Later that afternoon, Ron accompanied Hermione on her way to the Potions classroom. She'd expected him to be full of elbow-nudging and innuendo about the upcoming Ball, but apart from a lackluster "Ready, Hermione?" and "Nice weather, innit?" he hadn't had much to say. Odd, she thought. She wondered if something were wrong. It occurred to her with a pang that this was quite the role-reversal for them. Usually Ron was the one concerned because Hermione was being cold and distant.  
  
 _Oh, Ron. You deserve better than I've given you._  
She was glancing at him sidelong, trying to gauge his mood without staring directly at him, when she ran straight into a looming figure garbed in silver-starred robes.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore!" she gasped, when she looked up and recognized the wizard she'd just collided with. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there!"  
  
The headmaster chuckled and said, "Why yes, I'd gathered that, Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley," he said with a nod to Ron. Ron, flustered, said, "Er... hi, Professor," his face clearly broadcasting his worry that he was in some sort of trouble.  
  
But instead Dumbledore smiled at Hermione with a twinkle in his eye and said, "Might I request your company briefly, Miss Granger?" She opened her mouth to say that she had a class, but then closed it again, realizing that the school headmaster likely knew this already. Indeed, Dumbledore told her, "Don't worry; I'm sure that even Professor Snape can do without you for one class period. Mr. Weasley, you will tell the Potions master where your classmate has gone?"  
Ron nodded and shot a questioning look at Hermione. She shrugged slightly in return, as though to say  _I have no idea._  He said, "Er... later then, 'Mione," and headed on his way to the dungeons, casting a look back over his shoulder at Dumbledore and Hermione as he went.  
  
"Come along to my office, if you don't mind," Dumbledore told her, pleasant as always. Hermione was stricken with the thought that Snape's plan—that  _their_ plan—might have been discovered by the Order. She could think of no other reason that the headmaster would want to meet with her.  _Occlumency_ , she thought, and hid all thoughts of what she and Snape had been up to behind a white layer of snow in her mind.  
  
At the entrance to the headmaster's office, Dumbledore said, "Atomic fireballs," and the gargoyle swung open to let them in. Hermione followed him up the winding stairs to the familiar portrait-lined office, where Fawkes the phoenix observed them sleepily from his perch. She took a seat and waited for the headmaster to speak, clasping her hands together in her lap to still her nerves. Perhaps it was just some Head Girl business.  _But Professor McGonagall is in charge of that; that can't be it._  
  
Professor Dumbledore opened a drawer of his desk. "Lemon drop?" he asked her. She shook her head politely.  
  
"No thank you, sir."  
  
He popped one into his own mouth. "I find them delightfully restorative."  
  
His brilliant blue eyes focused on her. She felt, as she often did in his presence, that he could see everything about her, could see straight through her.  _He must know everything_ , she thought to herself.  _He's Professor Dumbledore. He must!_  But if he did, he'd surely have told the rest of the Order, and Snape would know. Surely.  
  
"Miss Granger," he said, "you have had quite an interesting year, have you not?"  
  
She paused before answering, feeling as though this were some sort of well-set trap. "Sir?" she said.  
  
"That nasty business with the Death Eaters last month, for example."  
  
She'd nearly forgotten that Dumbledore had been there when it happened. He'd been the first one that Snape had called. She relaxed slightly; maybe that's all this was about.  
  
"Oh. Well… yes, Professor, that was certainly… unpleasant. But I think I've managed to put it behind me. I'm concentrating on my N.E.W.T. studies now, actually. Did you ever find out how the Death Eaters got into Hogwarts?" She heard herself babbling, talking far too much, but Dumbledore made no reaction other than to pop another lemon drop into his mouth. Hermione's eyes followed it; it did look awfully good now that she thought of it, but she felt it was too late to ask for one now.  
  
"Professor McGonagall and I have not been able to find the source of their entry—nor of their exit, for that matter," he told her, regarding her with those piercing blue eyes. "It is a matter of deep concern for all of us, although the fact that we have had no further incursions suggests that perhaps it was a singular means of entry, one that cannot be repeated."  
  
"I see," Hermione said. Dumbledore produced another lemon drop and offered it to her wordlessly. Her eyes flickered to his face, but his expression was inscrutable as always.  _Well, what the hell_ , she thought, and took the offered sweet. "Thank you, sir."  
  
"Miss Granger," he said, "is there… anything you'd like to tell me?"  
  
She froze briefly, then pasted an inquisitive look onto her face and said, "I'm not quite sure what you mean, Professor."  
  
"Anything at all. Anything… unusual going on in the castle lately. Anything that you need help with."  
  
She thought,  _he knows_ , but then thought,  _if he knew he wouldn't be asking_. She suddenly wished that he did know. She wished that she didn't have to bear this burden alone, that she could get the help of the Order, that she could just  _tell_  someone what she'd been through. It was Professor Dumbledore, after all. He could be trusted. Surely, if no-one else, he could be trusted.  
  
The words balanced on her tongue, on the very edge of spilling forth. And then she remembered Snape's voice, asking  _Can I trust you?_  She'd told him yes. She'd told him yes, he could trust her.  
  
 _I'm sorry, Headmaster_ , she thought.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore, I've just been so busy with studies and getting ready for the Ball. I haven't noticed anything amiss. Do you want me to keep my eyes open?"  
  
He said nothing for a moment, then with a nearly-imperceptible sigh said, "Yes, Miss Granger, I would like that."  
  
After a hesitation she said, "Was that all, sir?"  
  
She felt that her guilt was written plainly on her face. She used all of the Occlumency tricks she'd learned from Snape to hide her thoughts and calm her heart and stop the blush from reaching her cheeks, but this was Professor Dumbledore, and she suspected he could easily see through all of these tricks and diversions. Even though his face betrayed nothing.  
"That is all, Miss Granger. Good luck with N.E.W.T.s—and, of course, the Ball." A hint of twinkle had returned to his eyes.  
  
"Yes, sir," she said, and with some relief stood and took her leave. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she realized that she'd been in Dumbledore's office so long that she'd missed the entirety of Potions class. She wondered if Snape had worried, and then she nearly laughed. Snape, worrying about her. Not bloody likely.  
  
—~—~—  
  
It took all of Snape's self-control not to go and find Granger, drag her out of whatever class she was in, and demand that she tell him what she'd been doing in Dumbledore's office. When Weasley had told him where she was, his stomach had lurched.  
  
Dumbledore had been probing him for information—subtly, but unmistakably—for weeks now. He must have decided that pressing Granger would prove more fruitful. He'd bring her into his office, offer her a sweet, try to get her to reveal the entire plan. And how could she not, after the hell she'd been put through lately?  _The hell that I've put her through_ , Snape thought. She'd be desperate for someone to reach out a hand of comfort, and Dumbledore was well-practiced at playing the part of the understanding uncle.  _She's not hard. Not like I am. Not like a Slytherin. She'll crack._  
  
On some base level, he knew this was not fair. He'd seen how hard she was with his own eyes. Still, though. She'd proven she could withstand torture and punishment; could she withstand— _had_  she withstood—kind words and a shoulder to lean on? He stifled his gnawing need to know. There was no way to contact her, not while she was surrounded by friends. It would have to wait until later.  
  
Much later. He did, after all, have an errand to run.  
  
—~—~—  
  
After dinner that evening, Snape stood before the tall mirror in his quarters, inspecting the invisibility charm he'd cast over himself. It was the same one he'd used to carry Granger back to her room the night before. It wasn't perfect; there was a faint blurring when he moved, and if someone stared at him long enough, they'd be able to make out his form. But it had served his purposes last night, and would do so again now.  
  
He knew that Bellatrix would have demanded a report immediately from Draco on his progress with Granger. But Snape had been keeping an eye on the boy—owls, house elves; he had his ways—and Malfoy hadn't left the castle. Ergo, Bellatrix must be coming to him instead.  
  
At a recent Order meeting, Dumbledore had proposed the theory that the Death Eaters had gained entrance through a one-time ruse of some sort. Snape thought not. No, Bellatrix had some way into the castle; he was sure of it. He was equally sure that Malfoy planned to meet her tonight. The boy been furtive and quiet in class that day. Nervous. He'd nearly dropped his wand into his cauldron when Snape brushed past him a bit too closely.  
  
 _Lucky I even let you have that wand back, after what you did with it, boy._  
  
Malfoy and Lestrange would meet tonight; that was certain. The only question was where and how. It was a continuing source of irritation to Snape that he could not figure out how she was getting in.  
  
The invisibility charm had settled onto him; only the slightest distortion was visible in the mirror, like heat rising from a paved road on a hot day. In the night-time gloom of the castle, even that would be nearly undetectable.  
  
A moment later the door to Snape's private quarters opened, seemingly of its own accord, and then closed again with a solid resonating thud.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape's count of students coming in or out of the Slytherin common room stood at seventeen, and as yet he remained completely unseen. He stood a short distance away from the door, watching for Malfoy. Malfoy could, of course, be using Polyjuice potion or some other such disguise. But Snape had a practiced eye at detecting that sort of spell. And at any rate, common sense told him that Malfoy would not be  _entering_  the common room, which ruled out ten of the students; neither would he be in a pair or a group, which ruled out the other seven.  
  
A lengthy period passed during which no-one entered or exited. The exhaustion and sleep deprivation of the past few days wore on Snape; he was well-practiced at ignoring bodily discomforts when necessary, but nonetheless his irritation grew by the minute as he was forced to stand in silence and wait. The hour was late, and the common room had to be nearly deserted by now. He wondered if perhaps he had read Malfoy incorrectly after all. Perhaps tonight was not the night.  
But he would continue to wait. He must discover the means by which Death Eaters were entering Hogwarts. At any moment, Voldemort might decide that he wanted Granger brought before him personally, see her writhing and twisting in agony right there in front of him. He'd send his Death Eaters to retrieve her, and they'd get in the same way Lestrange had got in. So he had to find out. Had to know.  
  
 _Because you're willing to torture her endlessly yourself but can't stand the thought of someone else doing it instead._  
  
Ironic that Granger had both provided the means for the success and the potential means for failure. She'd discovered the firedrake potion—oh, he was the one who'd seen the possibilities for its use, but it was her invention, her discovery—but she'd also driven him to utter distraction. And even if Lestrange believed that Granger hadn't met the conditions for the curse, she'd certainly got reports from faithful Draco that something seemed…  _amiss_  between the Potions professor and his most avid student.  
  
 _Of course she knows the girl sucked my cock_ , Snape thought, avoiding thinking about the details too closely.  _She knows her curse was solid and tight. She knows that even Cruciatus wouldn't break it._  
  
His head snapped toward the door; it was creaking slowly open. The student emerging from the common room was indeed Draco Malfoy; tonight was to be the night after all. The blond boy's head swiveled from side to side as though he were being hunted; seeing nothing but the familiar environment of the outer hallway, he emerged completely from the common room and headed for the stairs. Snape gave him a short lead, then followed in silence.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape realized Malfoy's intended destination almost immediately. He was an idiot not to have guessed it earlier. Draco was, of course, heading straight for the seventh floor and the Room of Requirement.  
  
The Room of Requirement had been a gaping hole in Hogwarts' defenses for a long time. A room that could hold anything you needed it to, could be anything you needed it to be—it wasn't hard to imagine someone finding a way to use it to get contraband in and out of the school. And so Malfoy had... or rather, so Lestrange had. Snape doubted rather seriously that Draco was capable of coming up with anything so clever.  
  
He narrowed the gap between himself and Malfoy as they approached the door. The boy paced in front of it once, twice, three times, brow furrowed in deep thought, and then the door swung open to admit him. Snape moved close behind to follow him in; the door closed again so quickly that he nearly caught his robes in it.  
  
He stood on the roof. Or perhaps an illusion of a roof… but no, he felt a damp night breeze. They were on the roof of Hogwarts. A low stone wall ringed the outside perimeter of the "room," but otherwise they were completely open to the air. Snape could see the familiar rolling hills curving away from the school, the lake, the Whomping Willow. The lights of Hogsmeade were visible in the distance. They were undeniably standing atop Hogwarts.  
  
Draco must have told the room that he needed open sky above him.  
  
 _Very clever_. Snape grasped instantly what they'd done… yes, even now a dark figure approached from the sky on a broomstick, silhouetted by the thin light of the crescent moon behind her. She rode side-saddle, both legs perched to one side of the broomstick. An elegant, refined technique; one that she'd undoubtedly been taught as part of her upper-crust childhood.  
  
No Death Eater could even attempt to land on the roof of Hogwarts; powerful wards protected it. But this wasn't really Hogwarts' roof; it was only a facsimile. Real sky, real air, and a real place to land. But not a real roof. Genius, really. He should have thought of it himself.  
  
Snape drew further back into the shadows. Lestrange—for indeed, it was she—dismounted with surprising grace. In a single feline gesture, she lowered her broomstick to the ground and approached Malfoy. The boy attempted a sullen, disinterested expression, but visible fear diffused from him. Snape could nearly smell it.  
  
The Death Eater, hair wild, clothing torn and tattered, leaned close so that her face nearly touched his. She spoke in a hissing whisper that carried clearly through the rooftop air.  
  
"What do you have to report,  _boy_?"  
  
He avoided her gaze, pleading, "Bella… it's impossible. They must know something is up. She's  _never_  alone. I've been watching her around the clock, and any time she leaves Gryffindor Tower she's with one of  _them_."  
  
Her lip curled, baring her teeth. "These are not my concerns, boy. We need information from her. I thought you'd enjoy this assignment; I thought you'd rise to the  _occasion_."  
  
Draco blanched. Her implication was clear: this was a chance to prove himself among the ranks of Death Eaters. Failure would not be looked well on by the Dark Lord, and Draco had spent enough time in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor to know quite well what happened to those that displeased Lord Voldemort.  
  
"But Bella, what am I to  _do_?" His voice rose at the end to a whine. Snape thought of Granger, and how she had borne far worse without complaint.  _Unless she's spilling the contents of her head to Dumbledore right now._  He grimaced and ignored the thought. No more distractions.  
  
Bellatrix hissed at the boy. "Use my map. Use your  _head_.  _Think of something_. If you can't do it, then I  _will_. She and your precious Potions professor are hiding something," she said, spittle flying from her mouth, "and  _I will find out what it is._ "  
  
Draco flinched and said, "Yes, ma'am." His pale skin was nearly luminescent in the faint moonlight.  
  
"We will meet again on Sunday. Here. Do not disappoint me."  
  
"No, ma'am."  
  
She chucked him under the chin in a grotesque parody of familial affection, and then with a snap of her fingers, she retrieved her broomstick and was off again, no more than a distant dark outline within seconds.  
  
Snape watched, still and silent, as Lucius Malfoy's son sank to his knees on the hard tiled roof, covered his face with his hands, and dissolved into great wracking sobs.


	22. Chapter 22

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself awake. Professor Sprout was off on an expedition gathering supplies of some sort—Hermione suspected that this might be firedrake-related—and Professor Trelawney was the temporary Herbology replacement.  _Because she has nothing better to do with her time_ , Hermione thought. Trelawney had abandoned the standard Herbology curriculum in favor of droning about different types of leaves and their use in scented incense.  
  
The only thing keeping Hermione from drifting off completely was Neville Longbottom's elbow, which he nudged her with every time her head sagged again. _Sorry_ , he mouthed to her, and she mouthed back,  _Thanks_. Honestly, Neville should be the one teaching this class. He was brilliant at Herbology and everyone knew it. But instead they'd have to put up with soggy-eyed Trelawney, at least until Professor Sprout returned.  
  
Just as Hermione thought that she was going to draw blood if she bit her cheek any more, she saw her classmates gathering their things and realized that Professor Trelawney had dismissed them. "That was brutal," she whispered to Neville under her breath.   
  
He nodded with a quick jerk of his head. "We could all use double Defense Against the Dark Arts instead of this. Considering, I mean. What's going on." He flushed and looked away. Hermione was tempted to praise him for having expressed a real opinion; knowing his character, she thought it rather brave of him. But that would probably only make things worse.  
  
"I agree completely," she told him, and got a grateful, bashful grin in response.  
  
On a sudden whim, Hermione said, "Neville, would you mind walking me to the library?" Technically she was supposed to wait for Ron, who was coming from the outdoor Care of Magical Creatures class to meet her, but she didn't feel like waiting today, and she didn't particularly feel like dealing with Ron and his moods, either.   
  
Neville could not have looked more surprised if she'd levitated herself off the floor. "Uh… sure, Hermione… b-but…" She could see that he wanted to ask her why but didn't want to be impolite.   
  
"I'm having a few problems with Draco Malfoy lately and I just think it's safer not to be alone in the halls," she told him. His eyebrows stayed raised, but the rest of his face relaxed somewhat.  
  
"Do any of the professors kn-know?" he said.  
  
Hermione considered how to answer Neville's question. "Sort of," she said. "Come on, let's walk."  
  
On their way out of the classroom, Hermione stopped to tell Professor Trelawney, "Excuse me, Professor, but if Ronald Weasley shows up looking for me in a few minutes, could you please tell him that I've gone to the library with Neville?"   
  
The Divination professor blinked owlishly. "Certainly, my dear," she said, and then as an afterthought, "Remember to keep your mind open to the prophecies!"  
  
Hermione exchanged a glance with Neville. "Er… yes, Professor."   
  
On the way to the library, Hermione gave Neville a shortened and heavily-edited version of recent events. She told him about her near-duel with Draco outside the Potions classroom and how Draco had been stalking her whereabouts ever since. Neville absorbed this information in silence.  
  
"So that's why I've had an escort through the halls for the last few days or so. It's only temporary until Draco calms down," she told him.  
  
Neville's forehead was lined with worry.  
  
When they got to the library, he offered to stay there with her. "Thank you," she said, "but I'll be safe in the library. And Ron or Harry will come to pick me up later. You were very sweet to come along with me, Neville." She meant it; it had been very nice to have someone to talk to in the hallway besides the increasingly-difficult Ron.  
  
"I mean it, Hermione."   
  
"I know you do."  
  
He gave her a long look, nodded, and turned and went on his way.  
  
 _Well, that was unexpected_ , she thought. But she felt warmer, safer, more protected, than she had in a long time.   
  
 _Thank you, Neville._  
  
—~—~—  
  
An hour later, Hermione was ensconced in her favorite carrel underneath a window that let in filtered afternoon light, surrounded by open books with page markers stuck all through them. She was engrossed so deeply that she didn't see the figure approaching until his shadow fell across her book.  
  
She looked up in surprise, and had time only to register that it was Snape, and that he had his wand out, before he said, " _Legilimens_ ," and surged into her mind.  
  
Instinctively, without pause for thought, she summoned up her hours of practice and showed him an image of herself, walking in the hallways toward the dungeon. It was the image she'd perfected in preparation for her next lesson. It resembled an actual memory in every respect, except that this one hadn't really happened.  
  
" _Now is not the time, Granger_ ," he ground out through clenched teeth, redoubling his attempts to penetrate the false image. But Hermione maintained it perfectly. All of her other thoughts were hidden behind it, protected.  
  
He withdrew after several moments. "Tell me," he said, his stare boring into her. "Tell me  _now_."  
  
Hermione felt a bright hot supernova of anger expand inside her. "Tell you  _what_?" she hissed. "Have you gone  _insane_? What the hell is wrong with you? You can't just invade my mind any time you want to know something. You can  _ask me_  like a  _normal person_."  
  
"You saw Dumbledore," he said, ignoring her. "What did you tell him? Be honest with me, girl.  _I need to know_."  
  
Her anger magnified, expanded, until it was all she could see, all she could feel. She stood up, cascading papers onto the floor, and stared at him with glittering eyes. "You  _arse_ ," she said. "How could you think that about me? You think after everything… after I  _promised_  you, you think I'd spill my guts to the first person who gives me a smile and a lemon drop?"  
  
"Miss Granger," he began, but his words made no impact in the storm of her fury.  
  
"All I've done is to try to help you and all I get in return is you violating my mind without permission  _again_. I didn't tell Dumbledore  _anything_ , nor will I. I might not be able to stand the sight of you"—he flinched as though she'd slapped him—"but  _I keep my promises_." She grabbed her books and pushed past him, stalking out of the library without looking back.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape knew on some level that he had deserved that, but at the moment all he could feel was outraged anger.  _How_  dare  _she? How dare she use the technique that_  I taught her  _to keep me from knowing something I need to know? Insolent, arrogant brat._  
  
He ignored the fact that she had given him the answer he sought. That was irrelevant; what was relevant was that she had refused him, had defied him. He was half-tempted to take points from Gryffindor, though he could hardly explain to anyone what the demerits were for. He imagined explaining to the headmaster that he'd taken points from Gryffindor because Hermione Granger had refused to let him Legilimens her on command.  
  
It did seem… questionable, when looked at in that light.   
  
He sat heavily in the chair that Granger had just vacated and ran his hands through his hair.  _What am I doing? What do I want from her?_  
  
That was a question he wouldn't examine too closely, though. Couldn't examine too closely. He'd been wounded once by unrequited love and he'd be damned if he let it happen again.  
  
He thought again of her face, tight with anger, and her voice, telling him she couldn't stand the sight of him.  
  
Well, that was easily enough remedied. No more Occlumency lessons, and then she'd be saved from having to look at him any more than absolutely necessary. He thought with bitterness that she clearly didn't need additional lessons, at any rate. He'd done everything he could to breach her mental barriers, and she'd successfully kept him out.   
  
 _Top marks for H. Granger._  
  
—~—~—  
  
Hermione was still shaking when she got back to the Gryffindor common room. He'd deserved her anger; oh yes, he had certainly deserved it. But she shouldn't have said that she couldn't stand the sight of him. She'd said it in fury and had regretted it instantly, especially when she'd seen his reaction.  _How many times have you seen him react like that to_  anything _?_    
  
But the thought of her being able to hurt Professor Snape was ridiculous. He certainly didn't spare any thoughts for her feelings. Her anger began to kindle again as she thought of how he'd violated her mind with no warning, simply because he wanted to know something.  _So that's what he thinks of me. That I'm not trustworthy. That I would lie to him._  
  
Little matter to her, then, if his feelings were hurt.  _As though he even has feelings to hurt_ , she thought. But she could not shift the unpleasant guilt lurking deep in her insides.   
  
"Hermione! Where've you been?" It was Ron, coming into the common room just behind her. "You were supposed to be in the library but we couldn't find you, and I thought…"  
  
In her flight from the library, she'd forgotten all about having an escort.   
  
"I'm sorry, Ron, I just—" She stopped short, realizing that she could hardly tell Ron what had just happened. She thought of making up some story about being escorted by someone else, but no-one plausible came to mind. Perhaps a version of the truth would be best after all.  
  
"I was with Professor Snape," she said. "Working on our project. And he brought me back here. I'm sorry, Ron. I forgot you were coming to get me."  
  
"Snape," he repeated, looking at her with disbelief. "In the middle of the day, in the library."  
  
"Professor Snape," she corrected, feeling somewhat defensive now. "And yes, in the middle of the day, in the library. Is there some problem with that?"  
  
Ron looked at his friend, her eyebrows arched in challenge, and decided not to push the matter. "Er… no, it's fine. I was just surprised, is all."  
  
She shrugged. "I've been busy lately. I have to make time for things when I can."  
  
Ron's face darkened, and she knew immediately that she'd said exactly the wrong thing. She could practically read it on his face:  _Then why haven't you made time for me?_  
  
"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."  
  
Taking pity on him, she said, "Look, are you hungry? We can sneak down to the kitchens together and I bet I can get one of the house-elves to make something up."  
  
His eyes shifted away from her, and he said, "Oh… um, actually I have something else to do."  
  
Hermione lifted her eyebrows. "Something else?"  
  
He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. "You're not the only one who's allowed to go off and do things in secret, you know."   
  
A hundred different responses wheeled through her head:  _I can tell you everything, just not now; it's not about you, Ron; I'm so sorry; I don't mean to be secretive; it's all because of Snape's project._ But what all of these really boiled down to were:  _There is something in my life that is more important than you, Ron_ , and she just didn't know how to say that to him.   
  
He half-snorted, seeing her frozen expression, and said, "Yeah, OK. I gotta go. Later, Hermione." He turned and left the common room again, and only when he was well out of range did Hermione finally manage a quiet, whispered, "'Bye, Ron."  
  
—~—~—  
  
All of Hogwarts buzzed with excitement on Friday, as preparations for the next day's Yule Ball were well underway. Class work was nearly forgotten as everyone chattered about gowns and dates and decorations. Even Professor Trelawney, usually completely oblivious to out-of-turn talk, finally slammed her hand down onto her desk and shouted, "I cannot hear myself think in this classroom!", startling everyone and causing Parvati Patel to knock Lavender Brown's notes onto the floor.  
  
Hermione glanced at the two girls hurriedly picking everything up. She blinked in surprise; was that familiar handwriting on one of Lavender's scrolls? She got a better look as Lavender was stuffing it into her satchel. Yes, that was Ron's handwriting. She'd recognize that messy scrawl anywhere.  
  
She made herself stop staring at Lavender before someone noticed.  _Ron's writing notes to Lavender Brown_ , she thought.  _And going off in secret to do secret things_. She felt an odd ballooning sense of relief.   
  
Ron was writing notes to Lavender. And had lost interest in Hermione. With lifting hope she realized that this meant no more sad puppy-dog looks, no more obligatory dates to dances and outings, no more fumbling gropes in her room. She remembered how much fun she'd used to have with Ron back when they were just friends and realized how desperately she'd missed that easy relationship.  _Maybe we can get that back_ , she thought. She just needed to tell him that she knew what he was up to, and that it was OK. Really OK.   
  
—~—~—  
  
The lightness in Hermione's step lasted until she set foot inside the Potions classroom. In her buoyant excitement at realizing that Ron's attentions had turned to Lavender, she'd nearly forgotten about the incident with Snape in the library the day before. As she took her seat, she looked up at him to find him staring at her in return. He bore a cold, emotionless expression, and turned away after only a moment. Guilt gnawed at her. She thought of apologizing for what she'd said yesterday. But no; first, he was hardly approachable, for an apology or for anything else. And second, he didn't deserve an apology.  
  
No, definitely not.  
  
Halfway through class, Neville, stationed next to her as always, leaned over and whispered into her ear, "Draco."  
  
She glanced at Malfoy. Even though Snape had Obliviated the pain of Cruciatus from her mind, seeing Draco still sent a panicky surge of adrenaline through her. She generally found it easier to just avoid him. But Neville was right; Draco was staring at her openly, with a curling sneer on his face. She suppressed a shudder.  
  
"Who knows?" she said to Neville, deliberately looking at her cauldron. "If he tries anything, he'll have to get through Ron or Harry first. Or you," she said, looking out of the corner of her eye at the tall boy next to her.  
  
"Yes," he said. "He will."  
  
After class was dismissed, Hermione wondered if she should ask Professor Snape about Occlumency lessons. But he was at his desk, head bowed over a scroll, giving off a decided air of not wanting to be bothered.  _Fine, then_ , she thought. Harry and Neville were waiting anyway, to go upstairs with her to dinner. She left the classroom without looking back, and so she did not see Snape look up from his work as she walked out; look up and stare, as though the force of his gaze alone could keep her there within his sight.


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione sat facing her mirror while Ginny Weasley stood behind her, working some sort of arcane magic on her hair.  _We are a week away from the attempted assassination of Lord Voldemort_ , Hermione thought,  _and I am sitting here having my hair done_. It felt surreal.   
  
Though, looking at her reflection, she had to admit that Ginny was doing an excellent job. Hermione's hair, usually a messy tangle of curls, was built into an elegant, glossy pile on top of her head, with ringleted tendrils escaping down the sides to frame her face.   
  
"Your hair is  _amazing_ , Hermione," Ginny said, making an artistic adjustment to a curl.  
  
Hermione lifted an eyebrow without moving her head. "Amazingly awful, I think you mean."  
  
"No, really. It's so thick. You can do anything with it. I don't know why you leave it so messy all the time; it shapes up beautifully with just a little effort."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I don't have time for a little effort."  
  
"Obviously." But Ginny giggled, and Hermione knew she was just teasing. "Seriously, Hermione, you look smashing. Ron is going to drop when he sees you."  
  
A knowing smile lifted the corner of Hermione's mouth. "I'm not so sure about that."   
  
Ginny flicked her playfully behind the ear. "Shut it! You'll look fabulous!"  
  
"That's not what I meant." Her smile widened; for once, she knew something that her more socially-connected friend didn't.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"I think Ron's eyes will be on someone else instead." She met Ginny's eyes in the mirror and was pleased to see the other girl's eyebrows lift in surprise. "Someone with an... herbaceous name, perhaps."  
  
Ginny's mouth opened. "Not…"  
  
"Lavender Brown," Hermione finished.   
  
"No!"  
  
Hermione nodded, prompting Ginny to say "Oi!" and swat her to hold still.   
  
"I saw one of Ron's notes to her in her bag, and she's been writing I LOVE RON WEASLEY all over her scrolls," she said. "He's clearly lost interest in me."  
  
Ginny looked dubious. "I can hardly believe that."  
  
"Believe it," her friend said. "I'm surprised he's still going to the Ball with me, to be honest."  
  
The red-haired girl looked thoughtful, and then a sly grin spread across her face. "Well, that's good for you then, isn't it?"  
  
Hermione agreed, "I was going to have to break things off with him, but now that will be easi—" She broke off, seeing her friend's grin expand even further in the mirror. "That's not what you meant, is it?"  
  
Ginny giggled. "You've got your eye on someone else too, haven't you? Don't think I haven't noticed! I just can't quite work out  _who_."  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione said, affecting what she hoped was an air of nonchalance. "I hardly have time for chasing boys about."  
  
"Ooh," her friend teased, "so it's not a  _boy_ , is it? A  _man_ , perhaps?" And just as Hermione was about to protest, Ginny went on, "Or could it even be a  _girl_?"  
  
"Ginny!"   
  
The younger girl dissolved into laughter. "You're so easy to tease, Hermione. OK, so not a girl. Some nice Slytherin boy?"  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes again. "There are no nice Slytherin boys."  
  
"Good point. All right, fine; don't tell me! But don't pretend there isn't someone. You wouldn't be letting me spend this much time on your hair just for  _Ron_."  
  
Hermione had no answer to that.  
  
—~—~—  
  
After Ginny left, Hermione considered what to do while she waited for Ron. She had quite a bit of time before he was due to collect her for the Ball, and she could hardly go anywhere in the castle with her hair looking like  _this_. There were always her N.E.W.T studies, of course. She could get out her Herbology work and look it over while she waited.  
  
She went to the little shelf by her bed where her books rested. As she moved two of them aside to get to the book on African plants she was looking for, her eye fell on a little jewelry case. It was nearly completely hidden by books, quills, and scrolls. She pushed a few scrolls aside to get to it and blew the dust from its lid.  
  
The case was small enough to fit into the palm of her hand. It was of polished oak, inlaid with porcelain. Her mother had given it to her, along with the few pieces of jewelry it held, when she left for Hogwarts. They'd been handed down through the years to each successive girl as she left home to make her own way, and Mrs. Granger had felt that going off to Hogwarts counted in Hermione's case even though she was only 12 years old. Hermione had barely even looked at it since the day it was given to her; the case opened with a grudging creak of disuse.  
  
Green light flashed at her from inside. She smiled ruefully; she'd never told her mother that she couldn't wear the family jewelry at Hogwarts because she was in the wrong House for it. It was such a stupid reason, but she knew she'd never get away with wearing jade-green jeweled hairpins and earrings. It just wasn't done.  
  
 _Green and gold_ , she thought to herself.  _That's a nice combination._  
  
Jade-green jewelry would match her golden gown beautifully. Hermione took the pieces out of the box and held them in her hand, turning them to catch the light.   
  
She was a seventh-year witch. It was her last Yule Ball. And she was going to bloody well wear the jewelry she wanted to wear, green or no green. Only because they were lovely pieces, of course, and family heirlooms. Not because she cared what anyone in House Slytherin thought of her.  
  
She avoided meeting her own eyes in her reflection and tilted her head to affix the first of the jeweled green pins into her hair.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape glared at himself in the mirror. He'd tried, as he always tried, to get out of attending this abortion of an event, and Dumbledore had, as always, refused him.  _It's not as though there's a bloody_  war  _on_ , he thought. And instead of working in his lab, or getting some much-needed sleep, or doing anything else useful, he was putting on formal robes so that he could spend the evening watching puling little excrescences of children mooning about and going off for secret snogs in the corner.  
  
 _This is why we're losing_ , he thought blackly.   
  
Although admittedly there wasn't much to do for the so-called war effort right now. He'd delivered a sufficient quantity of potion to get Voldemort through the next several weeks. The Order was still beavering away on finding Horcruxes, an effort that would presumably become far less urgent if the potion did its job. So Dumbledore was technically correct that there was no reason for Snape not to attend the Yule Ball along with all the other professors.  
  
No reason except that the thought of it made him want to claw his own blasted eyes out with his fingernails.  
  
He grimaced at his own reflection and then spun and stalked out of his quarters. The sooner he could get this over with, the better.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Ginny had been right; Lavender or no Lavender, Ron nearly dropped when he saw Hermione in her gown, waiting for him in the common room. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he said with feeling, his eyes traveling up and down her body. "Bloody  _hell_."  
  
 _Eloquent as usual, Ron_ , she thought, but it was impossible to be annoyed when you were being admired so openly. She grinned at him. "Thanks. I think."  
  
He offered his arm, his eyes still riveted to her. "You look like a goddess," he said. "Amazing."  
  
Hermione managed a blush. "That's sweet of you, Ron," she said.  
  
"It's true," he said. "Like you stepped out of the pages of a book. I'm not kidding."  
  
She curled her arm around his, wondering if he realized that this was to be their last-ever date.  
  
"I'm ready," she said.  
  
Just then, they heard someone coming down the stairs from the girls' wing. Hermione turned to look and saw Lavender Brown, resplendent in a classically flowing gown of Gryffindor scarlet and gold. Her hair was bedecked with flowers and jewels.   
  
"Lavender," Hermione said, "you look gorgeous." Ron spun around too at this, looking for all the world like a little boy who'd been caught sneaking the Christmas candy. He pulled his arm away from Hermione under the pretense of smoothing back his hair.  
  
Lavender only glared in response, her eyes shifting between Hermione and Ron.  
  
Wanting to break the awkward silence, Hermione went on, "Are you meeting someone?"  
  
Lavender looked directly at Ron and said pointedly, "I don't have a date. The one I wanted is going with someone else." She then lifted an eyebrow at Hermione, wrinkled her nose, and said, "Interesting choice of earrings, Granger. Slytherin colors. Not what I would have gone for, personally."  
  
Ron went beet red from his neck all the way to his forehead. Hermione could have cut Lavender down with a few choice words, but she decided to spare Ron the agony. "We'll see you downstairs," she said with a too-wide smile, and pulled Ron along with her out into the stairwell. Ron turned and gave a half-wave to Lavender as they left.  
  
"That was awkward," Hermione remarked, as they navigated the moving staircases on the way to the Great Hall.  
  
Ron swallowed hard. "She's just, uh... I'm sure she didn't…"  
  
Hermione took pity on her friend. "She wants to go to the Ball with you. It's clear as day, Ron."  
  
Ron looked stricken, but Hermione carried on, "And you want to go with her. Don't you?"  
  
"No, that's not—" he protested, but she turned to face him, cocking her head sideways and lifting an eyebrow.  _Come on_ , her expression said,  _don't pretend with me._  
  
He sagged and said, "Yeah… all right, I was going to tell you after the Ball, but Lavender and I… we… she and I…"  
  
Ornate tapestries and portraits swung past them in the background as the staircase shifted and transformed.  
  
"You've been seeing each other," Hermione finished.  
  
The misery on Ron's face was palpable. Hermione put her hands on his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "Ron, haven't you felt that things aren't right between us lately?"  
  
He sighed, looking dejected. "Yeah. I figured it was me." He met her eyes. "That you just don't like me."  
  
Her eyes widened and she shook her head, rattling her earrings. "Oh Gods, no! I like you, Ron! It's just… you're such a good friend, and I want you to be happy, and you're never going to be happy with me."  
  
He opened his mouth, closed it again, stricken.  
  
"You should be with her," she said. "You and I can still be friends. Isn't that what you want?"  
  
His forehead was furrowed in confusion. "You mean... you're not upset?"  
  
A grin lit her face. "Oh, Ron, I'm really not."  
  
A slow smile spread across his wide, freckled face in return. "Well, in that case… should we dance?" He paused, looking a bit sheepish. "I mean, at least once. Before I go off with Lavender. Uh, if that's OK."  
  
Hermione, still grinning, took his arm again and said, "After you, Mr. Weasley."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Dumbledore had outdone himself on the decorations this year. As each couple entered the Great Hall, they found themselves suspended in a wheeling starscape. The walls, ceiling, and floor were translucent, showing far-off twinkling stars, the Milky Way splashed across the sky, and occasional glittery comets streaking past. Most impressive of all, though, was the Earth itself, looming in the night sky, glowing blue and white and revolving ever so slowly. You could see the continents on it, and clouds moving, and the oceans: a perfect illusion. Far in the distance beyond it was the greenish speck of Venus. Student after student gasped out loud in delight upon entering the room; some even stumbled a little trying to find their bearings with no visible floor.  
  
Snape scowled.  _Bread and circuses_ , he thought, watching from a corner with his arms folded. His irritation was compounded further each time a new couple entered the room and oohed and aahed over Dumbledore's interior decoration.   
  
 _Some of us have_  real  _work to do_ , he thought.  
  
A seventh-year Ravenclaw boy announced the names of students as they entered, his voice magically amplified to resound throughout the room. He'd just done, "Neville Longbottom, escorting Luna Lovegood!" to general applause and catcalls. The Lovegood girl looked reasonably pleased from the looks of things, although that meant nothing; she looked pleased when she discovered some new piece of lint on her jumper. A good match for the ever-inept Longbottom, Snape thought.   
  
"Draco Malfoy!"   
  
Interesting. The Malfoy family's ongoing political problems must have prevented Draco from finding a date. Snape observed with a certain smugness that Malfoy was clearly uneasy, wearing a proud expression on his face to mask his humiliation at showing up alone. The professor didn't bother keeping track of him as he entered the crowd of mingling students. Malfoy wouldn't try anything at the Ball; not his style. He preferred to work alone, with smaller, weaker victims.   
  
A few more names were called, and then the orchestra started up at the far end of the Hall. Couples took to the dance floor with their arms wrapped around each other, swaying in time with the music. Snape's stomach turned. He wondered if he could legitimately leave early without being noticed. If he stayed much longer, he was going to start hexing random students just to keep from losing his mind.   
  
And then he heard, "Ronald Weasley, escorting Hermione Granger!" His head snapped towards the entrance; he hadn't known Granger would be here. He supposed he had thought it beneath her somehow. Certainly he felt that Weasley was beneath her; he'd had the idea that she'd ended things with the boy.  
  
And then he saw her, and he stopped breathing.   
  
She was elegant and sultry in equal measure; his eyes traveled from her hair piled in perfect rings of chestnut-brown curls, down the smooth line of her bare, exposed neck, to where her neckline revealed the swell of her breasts. Her dress clung to her like a second, golden skin, showing every curve, clinging to her belly and hips, a full skirt flaring out beneath the form-fitting bodice. She was exquisite, a work of art. Through the pounding in his ears he heard the murmurs of others around him; he wasn't the only one to have noticed Granger's transformation. He was seized with the sudden impulse to hex all of them into silence, to save her for his eyes alone.  
  
Weasley, awkward and clumsy, looking like a child's fingerpainting next to the girl's pre-Raphaelite splendor, escorted her onto the dance floor. Her words echoed in his mind:  _I might not be able to stand the sight of you…_  So, she'd made her choice. He made himself watch them for several more minutes, Granger laughing and smiling at Weasley, whose hands were on her waist and her hips as they danced. He watched until he couldn't stand the rising bile in his gut anymore and then spun away, stalking off to find some students to take House points from.   
  
—~—~—  
  
"Lavender is watching us," Hermione whispered to Ron. It was nearly the end of the first dance.   
  
He flushed and looked around to see where the other girl was.  
  
"Smooth, Ron," Hermione said, and laughed. "She's seen you looking for her now!"  
  
He turned his head from side to side quite comically, and she said, "She's directly behind you, you prat." The music ended to a smattering of applause, and Hermione disengaged from her friend. "You should go over and ask her to dance," she said.  
  
Ron furrowed his brow and asked her, "You're really sure, 'Mione?"  
  
"Really sure, Ron. Go on!"  
  
He gave her a grateful grin and turned to go to Lavender. Hermione watched the exchange; Ron said something to the other girl, whose face lit with delight. And then Lavender looked over Ron's shoulder to shoot a triumphant smile in Hermione's direction.  _Because that's just the type of girl she is_ , Hermione thought. But nothing could dim her buoyant mood. She looked around the Great Hall; Ron and Lavender were staring adoringly into each other's eyes. Malfoy seemed to be surrounded by a small knot of Slytherins over in a corner instead of giving her his usual lunatic stare. And she was quite cheered to see that Neville appeared to have brought Luna Lovegood to the Ball and was whirling her merrily around the dance floor.   
  
And Snape was nowhere in sight. Yes, there was much to be glad of.  
  
She was just thinking of taking a seat at one of the asteroid-shaped tables placed around the perimeter of the Hall when Ginny and Harry came up to her, breathless from the previous dance.  
  
"Where's Ron?" Ginny asked.  
  
Hermione smiled knowingly and let her eyes flicker to the corner where she'd left Ron and Lavender. Ginny followed her gaze and then gasped. "How did… what did…"  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. "What's going on, you two? And where  _is_  Ron, anyway?"  
  
Ginny elbowed him in the side and pointed at Ron and Lavender. Harry's brow darkened. "That prat. He ditched you at the Yule Ball?"  
  
Hermione laughed and said, "It's not like that, Harry."   
  
"It's not? What's it like, then?" Harry had such a look of utter and total confusion that she was tempted to keep stringing him along, but then she decided she'd have to explain before Harry went over and punched Ron in the nose.   
  
"It's been a long time coming," she said, and explained everything. Or as close to everything as she could, anyway—leaving out any mentions of their Potions master, of course. When she was done, Harry shook his head in amazement.   
  
"That explains a lot," he said. "You know, you two never really seemed a great fit anyway."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Were Ron and I the  _only_  two people at Hogwarts who  _didn't_  think that?"  
  
Ginny and Harry exchanged a look and then in unison said, "Yes."  
  
"Fair enough," Hermione said, grinning. "But I'm keeping you two from the dance now! Go on, have fun. I'll be over at one of the tables."  
  
Some bit of unspoken communication passed between Harry and Ginny, and then Harry extended a hand to his friend, saying, "Oh, no you don't. You're not going to spend the whole night off by yourself."  
  
Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise, but Harry would not be denied. "May I have this dance, Miss Granger?"  
  
With a look at Ginny to make sure that it was all right—the younger girl's face was dimpled into a grin—she acquiesced, taking Harry's hand and letting him lead her onto the dance floor.   
  
—~—~—  
  
Ginny must have passed the word around to their friends, because after Harry bowed to Hermione at the end of their dance, Seamus Finnegan was waiting to take his place, his eyes twinkling. "Right then, I'll have this dance!" he announced, and without waiting for Hermione to respond, pulled her back onto the dance floor.  
  
"Seamus!" she cried, but she was already being waltzed through the Hall with barely a chance to catch her breath. All she could do was to laugh and try to keep up. And then after Seamus, Dean Thomas—who had two left feet, but Hermione was having too much fun by this point to care—and then Neville Longbottom, who to Hermione's surprise turned out to be quite a good dancer.  
  
"You brought Luna!" she called to him as they took a turn past the orchestra, shouting to be heard over the music.  
  
He agreed, "That I did!" and grinned at her. She thought that Neville seemed as happy as she'd ever seen him. She'd never noticed before that he had dimples.  
  
Hermione glimpsed Luna off to the side, having what appeared to be a little dance with herself, undulating her hips and waving her hands in complicated patterns in the air. She saw Hermione and Neville going past and waved at them with a cheery grin. Hermione gave her a half-wave back before losing sight of her again.  
  
As the music slowed and the dance was ending, Neville looked at her seriously and said, "Sorry about Ron."  
  
She shook her head. "Nothing to be sorry about, but thank you anyway, Neville."  
  
He gave a quick nod of acknowledgment and reddened a little. Then he straightened his back, looked her in the eye, and said, "You look really pretty tonight. I just th-thought you should know."  
  
It was Hermione's turn to blush. "Thanks. You're a really good friend." There was the faintest tickle in the back of her mind, asking where her Potions professor was and whether he might not think the same as Neville, but she made herself ignore it. This was a night for fun, not for agonizing about Snape.  
  
Then Luna was there to collect Neville, and Hermione shooed them back onto the dance floor, where they launched into a truly magnificent waltz step. "Who would have thought?" she said under her breath.  
  
And then just as she was about to take a much-needed respite at one of the asteroid tables, Harry appeared at her elbow. "One more dance, Miss Granger?" he grinned at her. "Ginny's taking a breather."  
  
"I could use one of those," Hermione said with some feeling, but after all, it was her last Yule Ball, and likely the last fun she'd have for quite some time. So she gave Harry a mischievous smile and her hand, and the two began another whirling turn around the floor.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape considered that he would actually rather suffer an Unforgivable than watch this apparently unending horror show. He'd deducted House points from three Hufflepuffs, a Ravenclaw, and six Gryffindors for public displays of affection, although he was quite sure that they went right back to it the second he turned his back. He stalked the perimeter of the hall like a predator sniffing out prey, nearly invisible in his black robes against the black starscape. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of golden gown in the corner of his eye; but only a glimpse. Averting his eyes had proved marginally less excruciating than watching her, and so he did not allow himself to look.  
  
But then one of his glimpses revealed a black-haired boy dancing with her instead of the expected ginger. His gut twisted. He knew what he'd see when he turned to look, and he made himself look anyway: Potter. The Weasley boy was bad enough, but now Potter.   
  
Always Potter.   
  
The slow burn that had begun when he'd donned his formal robes earlier that evening kindled and flared into a consuming rage. He watched the pair with narrowed eyes, his lips set into a thin hard line. He watched as Potter spun Granger around the dance floor, and he watched her smiling and laughing, and he watched Potter's hands on her hips, and her glittering jewelry.  
  
Her jewelry. Her green jewelry. How had he failed to notice this before? Her jewelry was bright, mocking Slytherin green.  
  
The air around him snapped and sparked; his fury was so hot, so intense, that he was exuding raw magic.  
  
He was nearly out of his mind with anger; his last few shreds of self-control were enough to tell him this, but they weren't enough. Not nearly enough.


	24. Chapter 24

Hermione, breathless in Harry's arms, applauded the orchestra with everyone else when the music finally wound to a halt. "I'm definitely taking that breather now," she announced for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, but it looked as though Harry was already making off with Ginny again, and all the other Gryffindors were similarly occupied. She breathed a sigh of relief and made her way to the rear of the hall and one of the tables there.   
  
She had just found an open seat—there were plenty; most of the students were either dancing or off on the grounds somewhere already—when she felt someone's hand encircle her wrist. She turned to tell whoever it was that she was sitting this dance out, and then recoiled when she saw that it was Professor Snape, draped in black, his eyes cold and glittering.   
  
"Professor Snape," she gasped, "you scared me." She saw the halo of raw magical discharge surrounding his body, and said, "Sir, what—" but he spoke in a low hiss, "Miss Granger, you will please come with me."  
  
It wasn't a question. She tried to pull her wrist away, but he tightened his grip.   
  
" _Now_."  
  
He turned, pulling her with him, and strode toward the doors of the Great Hall. She tried again, "Professor Snape—" but again he cut her off.  
  
"Shut up, Granger."  
  
He was scaring her, scaring her badly. She had never seen him like this. He pulled her by her wrist, striding so quickly that she stumbled twice trying to keep up. It would have drawn attention to them, save for that no-one was looking at the rear of the Great Hall. Everyone was preoccupied with dancing or snogging.  
  
"Sir," she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, "you're hurting me." His hand was so tight around her wrist that she could tell it was going to leave a bruise.  
  
He ignored her; if anything, his grip became even tighter. They were almost at the doors. She could scream now and bring help. Help, attention, and lots of questions.  
  
 _No. I promised. Even now, even though he is scaring me. I promised him I wouldn't._  
  
She let him drag her all the way out into the main entrance and then into the stairwell. Once they were out of sight of the entrance to the Great Hall, he roughly pushed her against the wall and pinned her there with his hands on her shoulders.  
  
"Professor Snape,  _please_ ," she said; there was no mistaking her panic this time.  
  
"You think you're so clever," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "So clever, so smart."  
  
She pressed herself against the wall to put as much distance between them as possible. "Sir, I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Slytherin green," he said. "Mocking my House. Mocking  _me_ ," he finished with a snarl.  
  
" _What_?" Her mouth dropped open in shock. "I didn't—"  
  
" _Do not lie to me, Granger._ " That was loud enough to have been heard in the Great Hall behind them. "You are  _mocking_  me, and you put your mockery on display for everyone in that bloody hall to see."  
  
Hermione could barely breathe. Snape's face was distorted by rage into something nearly unrecognizable.   
  
"You… you think I'm  _mocking_  you?" she said. Her voice trembled.  
  
He hissed at her, "I  _know_  you are. Your jewelry is  _Slytherin green_ , Granger."  
  
Comprehension dawned on her face. "You think… my jewelry… but those are family heirlooms! I didn't wear this to  _mock_  you, for God's sake!"  
  
He snarled at her, " _Liar_."  
  
 _I do not deserve this_ , Hermione thought. All of the tension and fear and trauma that she had been holding back for weeks suddenly came boiling out like steam from an over-filled kettle.  
  
She shoved his chest hard with both hands, and shouted, " _I… am… not… lying_! Look inside my head if you don't believe me!"  
  
He gave a short bark of laughter and said, "This isn't my classroom, Granger, and you needn't show off. Trust me, I've no desire to see your bloody Occlumency practice again."  
  
"No, damn you," she said—she realized that both of them had been shouting at each other for some time, and only the orchestra had kept them from being heard—"I'm not going to stop you! Just look inside me!  _I am not mocking you_."  
  
They stared at each other, she challenging and he in appraisal. Then he came to a decision: "Not here," he said, and grabbed her wrist again, heading toward the dungeons.  
  
 _Oh Gods, what have I done_? thought Hermione.  _He is so angry. What will he do if he sees what I've been hiding?_  
  
But it was too late to change her mind; he was striding so quickly that she had to run every few steps just to keep up. He was taking her to the dungeons, and he was going to see inside her mind, and there was nothing she could do about it now.   
  
—~—~—  
  
Draco Malfoy slipped out of the shadows, where he'd been lurking half-hidden with a distraction charm. He'd watched Granger at the Ball, and he'd seen Snape drag her out of the Great Hall. He'd witnessed their entire exchange.  _Interesting_ , he thought to himself.  _When they're done doing… whatever it is they're going to do, she'll come out, and then I'll have her. And Bella will be very, very pleased._  
  
He slunk down the steps behind Hermione and Snape, leaving a safe distance to keep from being spotted.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape had the door to his quarters open well before they approached, and nearly shoved Hermione through it. There were no preliminaries this time; he pushed her roughly against the wall just the way he had in the corridor upstairs, and with his wand to her throat, he snarled, " _Legilimens_."  
  
She felt him push into her mind, and she let him, putting up no resistance at all. He went first for her memory of putting on the jewelry. She brought it to the forefront of her mind for him:  _There, take it._  And then she relived it with him: finding the jewelry box and blowing the dust off and thinking that for once it would be lovely not to have to worry about House colors but just to wear something pretty.   
  
He hissed at her, his voice filled with fury: "This is a false memory. You are Occluding."  
  
Mustering the effort to speak was like swimming up to the surface from the bottom of a lake, but she managed, "Just how good do you think I am?"  
  
"Show me another, then." She could practically feel the smirk on his face. He thought she might be able to project one false memory, maybe two, but she'd run out soon enough and then he'd know she was lying.  
  
 _Except that I'm not_ , she thought, and she knew the next memory she would show him. Hermione felt a hot flush sweep over her. Snape would see what she'd been hiding from him for weeks, and he would ridicule her for it, scour her with humiliation. But it was a strong memory, with powerful emotional resonance, and there would be no doubt that it was real.   
  
 _I am so tired of hiding_ , she thought.  
  
She brought him into the scene; Hermione sat and smiled into the mirror while Ginny smoothed and set her curls. Ginny asked her who she fancied, and Hermione pretended not to know what she was talking about.  
  
In Snape's office, Hermione breathed deeply to steady herself, knowing what came next.  
  
Ginny teased her, guessing the target of her interest. And Hermione thought:  _You'll never guess who it is even though it_ is  _a man and it_ is  _a Slytherin, because you'd never in a million years guess that it's Professor Snape._  
  
He made a startled choking noise. In that split second, she decided; she would show him everything. She was tired of hiding, tired of secrets. She'd show him all of it. Every bit.  
  
She threw open her mind, pushing memory after memory at him: the heavy knot of desire she'd felt when he'd whispered into her ear outside Gryffindor Tower; the nights she'd woken up breathless and gasping from a dream of having his hands on ( _in_ ) her body; the way she'd lost interest in Ron after Snape had kissed her; and oh, oh yes, how she'd felt during that kiss, how she'd felt sparks of electric fire racing down her spine, how she'd felt as though her whole body was consumed with heat, how she hadn't wanted it to end.  
  
Professor Snape had gone still. She could not even hear him breathe.   
  
She was trembling, but she knew they weren't finished. Not yet.  
  
She thrust the final memory at him, but he recoiled from it, began to withdraw.  
  
 _You wanted to know, so now I'm showing you. Look at it, damn you._  
  
And at last he did. It was the memory he had refused to let himself see in all the times he'd entered her mind. Even now, stunned and reeling from what she'd shown him already, he was reluctant, afraid of what he would find. But some part of him had wanted to know, had wanted to see. And she was thrusting the memory at him so insistently...  
  
 _In for a penny_ , he thought, and let himself enter it.   
  
In the memory, Hermione knelt between his legs on this hard stone floor. He'd thought she had been full of hatred, recrimination, humiliation. But she'd felt no hatred, no recrimination. She'd been nervous and afraid, oh yes… but she'd  _enjoyed_  it. She'd taken his cock in her mouth and she'd enjoyed it very much indeed. He saw in her mind that she wanted it again. That she had wanted it for a very long time.  
  
Snape, finally, could take no more, breaking the contact to stagger back with a great hitching gasp. He stared at Hermione in disbelief.  
  
Tears openly slid down her cheeks, but she held his gaze with bright, defiant eyes. "Now you know," she said. "Now you know everything. I wasn't  _mocking_  you with my bloody earrings. I thought you'd  _like_  them." Her voice broke as she finished, "You don't need to tell me how pathetic I am; trust me, I know."  
  
Silence stretched between them so long that Hermione thought she couldn't bear it, but she could think of nothing to say, nothing to diminish the profound shame she felt.  _He must think I am such a joke_ , she thought, and closed her eyes to wait for the excoriation she knew would come.  
  
He broke the silence finally, his voice low and controlled.  
  
"Were you lying then, or are you lying now?"  
  
Her eyes flew open. "Sir?" she managed. "I don't—"  
  
"Then or now, Granger. What you just showed me, or"—and here he broke into a mocking sing-song imitation of her voice—" _I might not be able to stand the sight of you_."   
  
She understood then.  _I did hurt him. Oh Gods, I did._  
  
With great effort, she said, "Then, Professor. I was angry. I didn't… I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." It felt surreal, apologizing to this man for hurting his feelings, but it was the truth, and she would not hide that from him. Not anymore.  
  
Snape made no response. He watched the girl trembling in front of him, still in her golden gown, her hair mussed and coming undone from where he'd handled her roughly on the way from the Great Hall, jeweled with the Slytherin-green pins that she'd worn for him.  
  
That she'd worn for  _him_.  
  
"Are you mad?" he whispered, almost to himself.  
  
She blinked and said, "Sir?"  
  
He raised his voice, "Are you  _mad_?" She blanched. With visible effort he exercised control over himself and went on, "How exactly do you expect this to go? Do you think I'll send you  _flowers_? Do you think you'll get  _love notes_?" He paused, and so softly she could barely hear him, he asked, "What kind of man do you think I am?"  
  
She met his eyes and said in return, "What kind of woman do you think  _I_  am?"  
  
A flicker of some expression moved across his face, so quickly she could not read it.   
  
"I don't want flowers," she said. "I want you."  
  
Arousal flared inside him, sharp and bright, but he suppressed it. No, he would control himself. He knew what he had to do.   
  
"This is madness," he said, withdrawing from her and folding his arms over his chest. "I'm not a good person. I'm not like everyone in your precious Order. I've done things that would turn your stomach."  
  
She watched him in silence, still pressed against the wall.  
  
"I've hurt people and I've enjoyed it, Granger. I've  _enjoyed_  it. I'll hurt  _you_. It's who I am." He fixed her with a piercing stare, but she held her ground, her jaw set as though to say,  _You don't scare me_.  
  
 _All right_ , he thought.  
  
He pulled up his sleeve then, to display the Dark Mark burned into his forearm. "I am a  _Death Eater_ ," he hissed.   
  
Her eyes were drawn to it, but she didn't recoil or or flinch. She said, "I know." And then she hesitated, looked up at his face, and said, impossibly, "May I touch it?"  
  
Time seemed to stop.  
  
 _The moments that define us._  
  
He could do the smart thing, the safe thing, and throw her out of his quarters and refuse to see her again. He should. It was clearly the right choice.   
  
But she was so close, and she was so beautiful that he could hardly bear to look at her, and he wanted her so much that he thought it might break him.  
  
 _I am not strong enough_ , he thought. And held his arm out to the girl.  
  
"You may." His voice was hoarse. She reached out, but hesitated, and asked, "He won't… know?"  
  
"No," he said. "It doesn't work that way."  
  
She nodded and took his hand, holding it in her left, while with her right, she stroked her fingers down his arm, starting at the wrist. She bent her head in examination; her face, framed by loose and trailing curls, bore an expression of intent interest. Her fingers traced down the veins of his wrist, each in turn. And then she reached the Mark and let her fingers outline it lightly, barely contacting the skin there.   
  
Snape let out an involuntary gasp.  
  
Without lifting her eyes, she said, "Is it sensitive?"  
  
"Yes," he said.  
  
"I wouldn't have thought," she murmured, and then she lifted his arm and touched her lips to it. Snape knew he should make her stop, but he couldn't find the words. She left a light, delicate kiss at the very top of the death's-head skull. It was the first time anyone other than he had touched the skin there since he'd taken the Mark two decades before.  
  
She brushed her lips along the pale, blue-veined skin of his wrist as she withdrew, and then met his eyes. He was aware distantly that his breathing was shallow and his heartbeat was rushing in his ears.  
  
"You need to go," he said. "Now."  
  
She made no move. "Why should I?"   
  
"Because," he said, "I am not made of stone."   
  
He took a half-step towards her, closing the distance between them.  
  
"Prove it." Her eyes never left his.  
  
Another step; his robes brushed against her.  
  
"Go," he told her. "Leave me."  
  
"You'll have to make me," she said, and he knew he wouldn't, knew he was lost.  
  
She opened her mouth to say something else, but he said roughly, "Enough," and covered her mouth with his own.  
  
He pressed the full length of his body against her, pinning her to the wall as he kissed her, hearing the little noises, the little moans she made. There was no confusion this time, no thought that these might be noises of protest.   
  
 _I am going to take this girl tonight_ , he thought, and the surge of desire that he felt was enough to nearly buckle his knees.  
  
He knew it was mad, knew it was foolish, dangerous; but he no longer had the capacity to stop himself. He held her head between his hands and looked down at her; she was breathing hard, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed. No; there would be no stopping now.  
  
"Not here," he said for the second time that night, and he led her toward a narrow passageway on the far side of the room.  
  
Her heart beat so hard and so fast that it was almost painful. She knew where he was taking her, and she knew what would happen when they got there. She'd felt his arousal when they'd kissed, pressing against her, hard and insistent even through his layers of robes.   
  
 _I did that_ , she thought.  _That was for me._  
  
The stone passageway was short, ending in Snape's bedchamber just as she'd known it would. A fire burned in the great hearth, providing a dim, flickering light; the walls were hung with tapestries in Slytherin silver and green. The only furniture was a wardrobe, and then of course the bed, taking up most of the space. It was clear that this was a room used for sleeping and nothing else.  
  
 _Until now_ , she thought.  
  
Hermione stood before the hearth, close to the warmth of the fire. With a gesture, Snape swung the door to the outer chamber closed.  
  
She opened her mouth to say something—something inane, borne of nervousness—but the words died unspoken when she saw his face. It bore naked, unrestrained lust, the same look he had worn the night she'd helped him back to the castle.   
  
His eyes traveled over every inch of her body; she felt exposed, on display.  _And aren't I_ , she thought;  _aren't I on display for him_? She became aware of a pressing heaviness between her legs and shifted her hips in response; he noticed, parted his lips slightly.  
  
"Take your hair down," he told her.  
  
Her eyes widened in surprise, but after only a slight hesitation she reached up to her hair with trembling fingers and began to undo the light magical binding Ginny had used to hold her hair in place. It only took a word or two. She found one of the pins and began to pull it out.  
  
"No," he said. "Leave that."  
  
She went still, her eyes searching his face for any signs of mockery. But there was none. He only stared at her, with a gnawing hunger he did not bother to mask. She let her fingers fall away from the pin. It was the work of a few moments to loosen the rest of her curls, until they spilled down around her face and neck in their usual tangle, held back now only by her pair of green jeweled pins, one at each temple.  
  
With a quick, practiced movement, Snape undid a clasp at his neck and shed his formal outer robes, letting them swirl onto the floor behind him. His hands moved with precision to undo the buttons of his frock-coat next, and soon he stood before her in only his white shirt and black trousers. Hermione gasped a little, and he looked at her sharply.   
  
"You have seen me this way before," he said.  
  
She shook her head, a motion so slight as to be nearly undetectable, and she whispered, "No. I haven't."  
  
"Come to me," he said.   
  
She moved closer, and when she was within an arm's length of him, he reached behind her, his fingers moving across the bare skin of her shoulders and neck. His touch was light and gentle, more so than she'd thought him capable of. He slid his fingers along the edge of the gown; she realized that he was searching for the closure to her dress, and her face reddened. Just as she was about to explain, he chuckled, just once, and murmured, "There's a mystery solved." And then lifting his fingers to make the slightest gesture, he transformed her gown back into her regular clothing, which of course is all it really was. She'd worn a simple Muggle-style blouse and skirt earlier that evening and that was what she now stood before him in.  
  
She heard Harry's voice in her head:  _Show-off_. That had been not just wandless, but silent as well. She briefly wondered what Harry would think of all this, but it was the thought of only a moment, because then Snape slid his fingers down the thin fabric of her sleeves. Hermione knew she was visibly trembling, but could not stop herself.   
  
"Unbutton my shirt," he told her, letting his hands fall back to his sides. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her hammering heart.  _This is it_ , she thought. _There's no going back now. I am doing this._  
  
She began at the top, unfastening each button in turn. He made no reaction, merely watching her; his eyes followed her hands as they moved, trembling, down his chest. She caught glimpses of his body underneath as the shirt fell open, saw that he was wiry, pale, scarred.  _So many scars_ , she thought. They looked as if they had been scattered there haphazardly by some cruel artist. She paused on seeing them.  
  
"Continue," he said, his voice soft but controlled.  
  
Her eyes flickered to his face and then back down again. Two buttons remaining. She undid them as quickly as she could manage, and then he shrugged out of his shirt and let it, too, fall to the floor.  
  
Before she even had time to absorb how it made her feel to see her Potions professor this way, he spoke again, "Now yours."  
  
 _You knew this was coming_ , she told herself.  _And you wanted it._  
  
She  _did_  want it; she'd imagined it so many times. But now that she stood before him, the reality felt quite different; quite impossible. But he waited, and watched, so intently that she felt he would burn right through her with his stare.   
  
She was nervous and self-conscious almost beyond her ability to cope, but managed to move her hands to the top button of her blouse and twist it through the buttonhole. Her hands shook, making the process excruciatingly slow. She reached the second button, and then Snape made a quick gesture and said, " _Diffindo_."   
  
The rest of the buttons instantly separated from her blouse and clattered to the floor. She gasped and stared up at him. He half-smirked. "I am not patient," he said. And then he rested his fingers on her blouse, and pushed the fabric back from her shoulders.  
  
Hermione's breath caught in her throat. His smirk widened; he was enjoying her reaction. The blouse slipped down her back, and the sleeves slid from her arms, and then there was nothing protecting her body from his eyes. Her first instinct was to cross her arms over her chest, to hide herself, but she didn't.   
  
 _Let him look_ , she thought. His smirk had disappeared, replaced by parted lips and a hungry stare.   
  
"I have wanted this," he said in a voice that was close to a growl, and then he drew her close into another kiss. She gasped in surprise and then again in pleasure; one of his hands wound through her hair, pulling her close, but the other one traced over her body, exploring her breasts, her hips, her belly, stroking and touching. No-one had ever touched her like this before, and she hadn't known what it would feel like, hadn't known that she'd feel little rills of pleasure everywhere his skin met hers.   
  
After several long moments, he disengaged and breathed into her ear, "Skirt." A few minutes before, she'd have been paralyzed with nervousness, but now she no longer cared. She could focus on nothing except the feel of his hands on her skin, his body pressed against hers. She undid a clasp at her side and with a wriggle of her hips let her skirt slide off.   
  
Snape thought to himself that he would not have believed it, would not have even wanted it, had he been told, when leering at the girl frozen in place in his office, that he'd have his hands on her body before two months were out.  _And yet here we are_ , he thought, and stroked down her ribcage in a way that he knew now would make her gasp and twist toward him. Her knees weakened, and she leaned hard against him, pressing her hands against his chest to support herself. A growl emerged from deep within his throat.  _I cannot control myself much longer._  
  
Hermione was aroused beyond reason; her entire being seemed to be centered on the spots where his fingers met her skin and on the pulsing ball of heat between her legs. His hands were relentless, teasing her carefully, methodically. It was arousing, maddening, frustrating. She heard herself moaning, "Please," into his chest.  
  
"So articulate, Miss Granger," he said, his own voice hoarse. He traced his fingertips over her breasts and heard the sobbing, strangled noise she made, felt her twist and writhe against him. He was distantly aware that his prick was as hard as it had ever been.   
  
"Please!" she gasped again.  
  
He needed to hear her say it, and so with more control than he'd thought he possessed, he looked directly into her eyes and said, "Tell me what you want."  
  
She cried out in frustration, her eyes sparking with need. She could see on his face that he would not relent, that he was going to make her ask. That he was going to make her beg.   
  
She was afraid to ask for what she wanted, but she couldn't stand being teased anymore, and so after several long seconds, she balled her hands into fists against his chest and said, "I want…" and then, forcing it from herself, "I want you to  _take_  me!"  
  
And then his hands were around her arms like iron manacles, and he pushed her to the bed and said, "My pleasure."  
  
She barely had time to react before finding herself pinned down, Snape looming over her on his elbows, the length of his hard, wiry body pressed against hers. He'd got his trousers off and she hadn't even noticed when, or how. She could feel his cock, hard and stiff, pressing against her inner thigh, and she squirmed against it to see how he'd react. He closed his eyes and growled, sending a thrill of arousal coursing through her. His hands were tight around her arms, holding her down and keeping her in place no matter how much she squirmed.   
  
He thought of the other women he'd had; the unwilling ones who had struggled and fought, and the ones who had consented but lain limp and passive. This girl was writhing against him in apparent pleasure before he'd even begun.   
  
 _I know how to stop your squirming_ , he thought in a haze of lust, and with no warning or preamble, he drove his cock deep inside her.  
  
She arched her back and made a sound like nothing he had ever heard before; surprise, and ecstasy, and pain, all together in one sobbing howl. He had forgotten that she had never done this before. He'd felt resistance when he entered, and wondered if he had hurt her. But she'd get no respite from him. He couldn't hold back now even if he'd wanted to. He thrust into her again, and again she arched, and bucked her hips forward, and cried out.   
  
Hermione tried at first to maintain some semblance of composure, but after the second thrust, she gave in completely; her eyes rolled back into her head with each stroke, and she moaned half-formed unintelligible words, words that started out "oh Gods," or "please," but turned into helpless sobs of pleasure instead. She found herself thrusting her hips forward to accommodate him, to let him penetrate deeper inside her, because it felt so good, so mind-consumingly good.  
  
 _He is inside me_ , she thought hazily.  _He is inside me and I never want this to stop._  
  
She felt a telltale tingling between her legs, one that was familiar to her from her own explorations in her bed alone at night. But this was different. This was more powerful. It expanded, grew closer and closer, with every one of his thrusts.  
  
He heard her gasps and sobs become higher-pitched and closer together, and saw a flush come over her face. He had never brought a woman to orgasm before, and at first he did not recognize the signs. But then he heard her gasp, "I'm going to…" and he knew. He knew what he was doing to her. He thrust into her again, hard, artless, and felt her hips move beneath him, felt her muscles squeezing him inside.   
  
He knew that if he stopped now, he could make her beg, could make her plead, and part of him wanted that more than anything; wanted to see her desperate and begging for his cock. But he couldn't stop now. Not for that; not for anything.  _There'll be time enough for that later_ , he thought with what small part of his brain still functioned.   
  
She opened and closed her hands helplessly and managed to wrap her legs around his, pulling him more tightly to her. He could see that she was close, was nearing the crest. And suddenly he knew something he wanted from her.  
  
"My name." Her eyes flew open to look at his face. "Say it," he said, and thrust hard into her, drawing out a helpless moan.  
  
She fought to control herself, desperately close to the naked edge of orgasm. "Pro... profess…"   
  
"No." Another hard thrust, and another cry. "My  _name_ , girl."  
  
She understood then, and he ground himself into her fast and hard while she twisted and writhed and he felt her convulsing around his cock and she cried out the word that he had wanted in her mouth, "S… S-Severus," and then when she'd said it once she couldn't seem to stop saying it, "oh my God,  _Severus! Severus!_ "  
  
Then he was lost himself, snarling and growling at her as his orgasm swept over him and he gripped her wrists so tightly she'd later bruise, and he thrust and thrust into her, oblivious to anything but the ecstasy of her body wrapped around his.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Some hours later, Draco Malfoy opened his eyes with a start, realizing that he'd fallen asleep. He'd settled himself into a secluded alcove, hidden from view but close enough to watch for Granger to emerge. He considered for a moment the possibility that she'd left while he slept, but he thought it was unlikely. He'd only been lightly drowsing, and the door opening or closing would have woken him. No, she was still inside. He had no idea what time it was, but he felt he'd been there for hours.   
  
Hours. The Mudblood bitch had been in Snape's quarters for hours.   
  
His mouth twisted into a grin. This was information that Bellatrix would find highly interesting. Almost as good as capturing the little bitch herself. Bella had told him, hadn't she, that something was going on between these two. Granger had spent the night in his fucking quarters. What more proof could she need?  
  
It was too much to hope for that this could elevate his father in Lord Voldemort's eyes, but it might at least keep either of them from being killed. He unwound himself from his position on the cold flagstones and stretched, avoiding looking at the Dark Mark on his forearm when his sleeve slid up to expose it. He had the uneasy feeling that the thing was looking back at him.  
  
At any rate, there was no sense in waiting any longer. There was an excellent chance that when she finally did emerge, it would be with Snape, and Draco had no desire to confront his professor in combat. No, best be off to his own House, to wait for his appointment with Bella.  
  
He had so very much to tell her.


	25. Chapter 25

"You should go."   
  
Hermione opened her eyes. Her head rested on her Potions professor's chest, and her legs were tangled together with his.  
  
"I fell asleep," she said, half-muffled into his chest, and she pushed herself up on the bed to look at his face. His mouth quirked in amusement.  
  
"Indeed," he told her. He must have been watching her for some time. She felt vulnerable; vulnerable and brave, capable of anything.  
  
"Is it morning?" she asked him.  
  
"Nearly." His mouth thinned. "Your friends will have missed you." There was challenge in his tone.  
  
Her fingertips rested on his bare stomach; she felt the raised ridge of a scar, idly began tracing it. His muscles tightened, but he said nothing.  
  
"They won't have," she said.  
  
"Not even your date?" His expression didn't change.   
  
She came to the end of the scar she'd been following, let her fingers find another one. "He's not my date," she said. He twitched, just once, when she traced across the line where his abdominal muscles formed a V just above his hip. "He's with Lavender. They won't have missed me for a minute."  
  
"Good," he said. Her eyes flickered to his face; the single word held a world of meaning.  
  
"You have to be careful," he went on. "Never without an escort. Not until the plan has worked. And do not even go near the Room of Requirement."  
  
She arched an eyebrow at him.   
  
"I followed Malfoy there," he said. "It's how Bellatrix is getting in." He followed this with a stifled groan; her fingers had drifted down his hip to his inner thigh. "Are you paying attention, Miss Granger?"  
  
She noted that he hadn't asked her to stop.   
  
"Yes, Professor Snape," she said, placing a little extra emphasis on his title, "I am. Never without an escort, no Room of Requirement, until the plan works. And how long will that be… sir?"   
  
Her eyes shifted to his cock, very evidently stiffening again under her ministrations. She felt fearless.  _I can do that to him with nothing more than my fingertips._  
  
"A week. Preferably more, but we can wait no longer than that. Hermione—" He sucked in his breath sharply; she'd bent her head so that her hair trailed along his inner thighs and her lips brushed against the tip of his cock. She wondered if he realized that he'd just used her proper name.  
  
She looked up at him with innocent brown eyes and said, "Do you still want me to go?"  
  
His nostrils flared. She could practically hear him saying  _Do not presume_ , but he only clenched his teeth together and managed, "No."   
  
And then there was no more talking, for quite some time.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Much later, after dawn had already crested over the Scottish moors, Hermione made her way back to Gryffindor Tower. Anyone watching would have thought she was alone, but she was escorted by Snape. He'd cast an invisibility charm on himself; it was apparently unnecessary, as there seemed to be no-one else stirring in the castle at this hour, but he'd wanted to leave nothing to chance.  
  
The Fat Lady tut-tutted when she saw the pair cross her threshold—invisibility charms held no power over her—but otherwise kept her opinions to herself.  
  
When they arrived at the door to the Head Girl's quarters, Hermione turned to Snape and whispered, "Show yourself," and then after a beat, " _Please_. I want to see you before you go."  
  
He knew that the charm only worked when the observer was more than a foot or two away, and so he moved closer, enough to be blurrily visible to her. She furrowed her brow, leaning forward to peer at his half-formed image.   
  
And then on sudden whim, he pulled her close and kissed her, hard and urgent, wrapping his hands tightly through her hair, holding her tightly to his body and listening to her little cries. When he disengaged, he brushed his lips against her ear and murmured into it, "I trust that was sufficient, Miss Granger."   
  
She nodded, trembling visibly. "Excellent," he breathed, and took two steps back, enough so that he blurred back into invisibility. She blinked, staring right through him.   
  
"Goodnight, Miss Granger," he said, and he allowed himself to enjoy her startled reaction at hearing his voice come from nowhere. When she recovered, a smile played about her lips.  
  
"Goodnight… Professor." She turned at last to go into her quarters; he waited, silent and watching, until the door closed with a heavy click.  
  
Snape felt oddly buoyant as he made his way back to his dungeon quarters. The sick, heavy self-loathing that he had lived with for months was gone, as though he had taken off a too-warm jacket, letting his skin feel the air.  
  
 _This can't last_ , he thought, but not even his innate pessimism could dampen his mood. Not today.   
  
—~—~—  
  
The mid-day sun was streaming through the windows of Gryffindor Tower when Hermione finally emerged into the common room. Ron, Ginny, and Harry were sprawled across chairs and couches, waiting for her. She blinked at them, and then realization dawned on her face.  
  
"We said we'd have lunch together today, didn't we?" she said.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes, and Ginny laughed and looked smug. "I told you she'd forgotten," she said to the two boys.  
  
"Brain the size of a planet, and can't remember a simple lunch date," Ron said, but Hermione could see from the way the corner of his mouth turned up that he wasn't really upset.  
  
Ginny, with a twinkle in her eye, said, "Late night?"   
  
Hermione remembered their conversation from yesterday; Ginny still obviously thought that she'd made off with some Slytherin the night before and was keeping it all a big secret.  
  
With a jolt she realized that this was exactly what she had done.  
  
"Couldn't sleep," she lied. Ginny lifted a dubious eyebrow but didn't press further.   
  
Hermione changed the subject, asking, "Have you guys been waiting for me long?"  
  
"We're not starving to death, if that's what you mean," Harry said, followed by a fervent, "Not yet, anyway," from Ron.  
  
"Where's Lavender?" Hermione asked.   
  
Ron flushed and said, "Er… sleeping in, I think. She had a late night too. Er… probably she did. I mean, I wouldn't know for sure obviously. I mean, she—" and then he couldn't extricate himself from the tangle of words he'd created, instead staring helplessly at his friend.  
  
She arched an eyebrow at him but then took mercy, breaking into a grin and saying, "Well, I suppose she's far from the only one sleeping late at Hogwarts today. Anyway, I've held you up long enough. Let's get some lunch!"  
  
Hermione wondered, as they made their way down the stairs, if any of her friends could see the difference in her. She felt as though she were glowing, throwing off visible light that could be seen for miles.  _How can they not know?_  she thought.  _How can they not see?_  She could still feel the touch of his bare skin against her own, still had the taste of him on her lips.  
  
It occurred to her that Potions class tomorrow would be… interesting. A secretive smile touched her mouth—though if any of her friends noticed, they let it go by without mention.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Draco entered the Great Hall with a smirk borne of smug satisfaction, fresh from his meeting with Bellatrix. It had gone even better than he'd hoped; she'd cackled in delight to hear his news about Snape and the Granger bitch. She wanted to do something about this situation "immediately." His smirk spread into a grin as he remembered the instructions she'd given him. Yes, things were turning around for him. Turning around quite nicely.  
  
He made a point of walking near to the Gryffindor table where Granger was sitting with her trained apes. Weasley saw him first and scowled. Draco nodded his head in acknowledgment, smirking. He was amused to see Weasley's face rapidly turning color to match his hair.   
  
Ron glared at Malfoy and said loudly, "No worries, Hermione, we'll be escorting you. Harry will meet up with you tomorrow morning—right, Harry?"   
  
Potter looked at his friend with confusion.  _Very smooth, Weasley_ , Draco thought, and stifled a chuckle.  
  
"What, Ron?"  
  
Ron turned even more red and said, " _Hermione_. Escort. You. Tomorrow morning.  _Right?_ " He jerked his head towards Malfoy with what he undoubtedly thought was great subtlety.  
  
"Oh," Potter said, catching on. "Er… yes. 8:30, just like usual. Right, Hermione?"  
  
Malfoy couldn't stop grinning.  _You've just given me quite a gift, Weasley. Thought that was going to take ages, and you've dropped it right into my lap._  He tossed out, "Fascinating. I wouldn't have thought you lot were able to tell time," and then sauntered on his way.  
  
Hermione had been stiff and still for the entire exchange, avoiding eye contact with Malfoy. As he left, she visibly relaxed and then glared at Ron and Harry. "Don't engage him," she said. "It only makes it worse."  
  
Ron puffed out his chest a bit and said, "Well, now he knows not to even bother trying to mess with you, doesn't he?"  
  
She sighed. "I guess so, Ron." She wished she could tell her friends why she could barely even stand to be in the same room with Malfoy, why the sound of his voice made her skin crawl. Although having Ron and Harry attempt to use the Killing Curse right there in the Great Hall would hardly be an improvement in their situation, so perhaps it was just as well that she had to keep it secret for a while longer. She wondered if Snape would tell her before he left to carry out the plan.  
  
The thought of Snape brought color to her cheeks, and she made herself focus on her friends' conversation again, before anyone noticed.  
  
—~—~—  
  
"Couldn't sleep, eh?"  
  
Ginny was walking back to Gryffindor Tower with Hermione. After lunch, Harry had excused himself, no doubt off to another Order meeting. And Ron was off to see Lavender.  _If she's managed to drag herself out of bed yet_ , Hermione thought, knowing she was being unfair. She'd hardly been an early riser herself that morning.  
  
Hermione glanced at Ginny, wondering what to tell her. The truth was hardly an option.  
  
"I was up late, yeah," she finally said, avoiding eye contact with her friend. "Studying."  
  
Ginny made a sound like air rushing out of a balloon and rolled her eyes. "Hermione. Don't try to feed me a line about studying. I know perfectly well you didn't leave the Yule Ball and spend the night in your room  _studying_."   
  
Her tone was less playful and more accusing than it had been when they'd had this sort of discussion previously.  _She knows something_ , Hermione thought. She stopped walking and turned to face the other girl.  
  
"Ginny, what's this about?"  
  
Ginny chewed on her lip for a moment without saying anything. Hermione felt uneasy; she thought about how she'd feel if she found out that a trusted friend had kept a secret like this from her for so long—how she'd feel if she knew that a friend had lied to her outright.  _But I have to lie_ , she thought.  _Don't I?_  
  
Ginny broke her silence at last with, "I saw you leave last night."  
  
Hermione instinctively assumed a neutral expression, ready to feign ignorance. But Ginny went on, "With Snape." She tilted her head in challenge and said, "I saw you leave with him, and you never came back to the Ball. You didn't come back to your room, either. I checked."  
  
Hermione had thought no-one had seen their exit last night… but she'd been distracted. Very distracted. She wondered, with an adrenaline spike to her stomach, exactly how much Ginny had seen. Had she seen her shouted argument with Snape in the hallway? She could hardly explain any of that away as a special research project, or studying, or any of the rest of her usual excuses.  
  
They reached the moving staircases of Gryffindor Tower. Hermione said, "Come to my room with me." Ginny lifted a dubious eyebrow but followed her friend.   
  
 _Maybe I should just tell her the truth_ , Hermione thought. But she'd made a promise. She'd promised him that she could keep this secret. Even from her friends. Even from her  _best_  friend. And even if she hadn't made that promise, she knew how important secrecy was. One word breathed in the wrong direction, and Voldemort would have them.  
  
But she had to tell Ginny something.  
  
Hermione held her silence until they were inside her room with the door firmly closed. Ginny took a seat on the bed, folding her legs up underneath her, while Hermione perched on the edge of the overstuffed chair next to her desk and folded her hands in her lap.  
  
"All right," Ginny said, "what's going on?"  
  
Hermione took a deep breath, having decided what she was going to do. "I'm going to tell you as much as I can," she said. "But that's not much."   
  
Ginny's eyebrows looked as though they would skyrocket from her forehead.  
  
"You're right that I wasn't studying," Hermione told her. "I'm sorry I lied about that. Really I am."   
  
When several seconds passed with no further elaboration, Ginny asked, "So... what were you doing, then?"  
  
"I… I can't tell you." Hermione willed her friend to accept this.   
  
"But it's something to do with Snape." Ginny said. The set of her jaw said that it wasn't a question.  
  
Hermione opened her mouth, closed it again. Ginny had seen them leave the bloody Ball together. She knew something was up.  
  
 _I can't lie to her anymore._  
  
"Yes," she said. "It's something to do with Snape." It was the first time she'd admitted that to anyone. She felt as though she were balancing on a tightrope stretched over a great height.  
  
Ginny's mouth was a thin, hard line. Her eyes glittered with a severity Hermione had rarely seen from her friend.  
  
"Is he hurting you?" she asked.  
  
Hermione flashed for an instant to the night before, when he'd pinned her down by her wrists, made her writhe, made her scream. She blinked and cleared the image from her mind.  
  
"He's not," she said. Ginny's expression didn't change, and Hermione went on, "I promise, I'm telling the truth. He's not hurting me."  
  
"But you can't tell me what this is about."  
  
"I can't," Hermione said. "Not yet anyway." And then wondered if even that was revealing too much.  
  
"Not yet," Ginny repeated. Still folded into her lotus position, she frowned at her friend and said, "Hermione, last night he looked  _really_  pissed off. I don't know what's going on, but… promise me he's not hurting you. You have to promise me that."  
  
Hermione met her friend's eyes. "I promise you that Professor Snape is not hurting me."  
  
Ginny let out a breath. "All right. But you  _will_  tell me what this is about?"  
  
Hermione nodded. "I will. When I can. I promise. And listen… don't tell Harry or Ron about any of this. Please?"  
  
The other girl unwound herself from the bed and rose to her feet. "I won't. But I'm worried about you." She went to her friend and wrapped her arms around her in a tight hug.   
  
"I know," Hermione said, muffled into Ginny's hair. "I would too, if it were you."   
  
Ginny pulled back from the hug and said, "Make sure you wait for Harry tomorrow morning, yeah? Draco is freaking me out."  
  
"I will," Hermione said. Ginny gave her friend a peck on the cheek and a worried frown, and then she left through the door.  
  
Hermione expelled a long breath. She hadn't revealed anything to Ginny that Ginny hadn't already found out herself, so she'd maintained her promise to Snape. And she'd felt such a wash of relief to be able to tell even a small part of the truth to someone else.   
  
 _Soon. Soon you'll be able to tell everybody everything._  
  
—~—~—  
  
Several stories below, Snape sat at his desk, his quill moving steadily across a scroll. Steam curled out of the magically-warmed mug of tea next to his right hand. He signed his name with his customary flourish and then rolled the scroll tightly and marked it with his seal. It was addressed to Lord Voldemort and informed the Dark Lord that Snape could deliver the next batch of potion on Friday of this week.  
  
He let his hand rest on the scroll for a moment. He thought the chance that he would survive the week to be vanishingly remote. Bellatrix had been whispering in Voldemort's ear all these long weeks, telling him that Snape was a liar and a traitor. And the Dark Lord could hardly have failed to notice that the potion he'd been taking for four weeks had had no discernible effect whatsoever. He'd be lucky if Voldemort didn't kill him on sight.  
  
But then, a few seconds in Voldemort's sight would be all he needed.   
  
He laughed to himself, a humorless sound. Yes, then all he'd have to do would be to fight off a room full of Death Eaters bent on vengeance. And that's if the potion even worked.  
  
He closed his fingers around the scroll, lifted it, examined it. It felt heavier than its slim width would indicate. It felt like an end to things.   
  
The image of Hermione writhing and sobbing out his name came unbidden to his mind, and he realized that for the first time in a long time, he very much did not want things to end.   
  
He put the scroll down and got out a fresh sheet of parchment. He'd send the first one; oh yes, no question of that. The trap had been set, and he would wait no longer than Friday to trigger it. But he would write a second letter as well.   
  
This one would go to Albus.


	26. Chapter 26

Hermione didn't even bother to look at herself in the mirror. She threw her robes on and dragged a brush through her hair a perfunctory time or two. No time for fussing over her looks. Harry would be in the common room waiting for her in just a few minutes. She'd overslept—the result of lying awake in her bed, sleepless, until the early hours of the morning. Her mind was spinning with thoughts of Snape and of their plan. The closer it came to fruition, the more she worried; she worried that they should have told the Order, that they should wait longer for the potion to take effect. She worried about Snape and what would happen to him at Malfoy Manor.  
  
But right now she needed to worry about meeting Harry on time. She tossed her brush onto the bedside table with a clatter, grabbed her satchel, and hurried towards the door, noting the time as she did. Still five minutes early. Time to spare.  
  
Harry stood in the common room looking bored, glancing around at the décor the way that people do when waiting for someone. He started in surprise when he saw her.  
  
Hermione smiled. "It's just me, you prat."  
  
His eyes clouded for a moment and then he gave her a weak, watery smile. "Hi, Hermione."  
  
Odd. She wrinkled her brow. "Are you all right?"  
  
He blinked at her. "Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
 _It's too early in the morning for this_ , she thought with some irritation. This was the sort of incomprehensible behavior she expected from Ron. "Never mind," she said. "Come on. We just have enough time for breakfast before Arithmancy." She was looking forward to Arithmancy; working on logical problems that had logical solutions sounded like a lovely change from the sorts of things she'd been spending her time worrying about lately.  
  
Harry held back to let her go first— _chivalrous_ , she thought—and they left to descend the moving staircases. Halfway down, Harry stumbled and barked his shin against a staircase that shifted a little too suddenly. "Stupid thing," he muttered, and he glared at it, rubbing his shin.   
  
Hermione frowned. Harry had never had any trouble with the staircases, not since their first day at Hogwarts six years ago. Her hand crept toward her wand.  
  
The motion attracted Harry's eye, and he jerked back upright, forgetting his shin. The expression in his eyes reminded her of someone else...  
  
 _Malfoy._  
  
She dropped her satchel and drew her wand, but he was quicker; his wand was out and aimed at her before she could even raise hers in defense. " _Imperio_ ," he said, cutting her off mid-cry. He grinned; she recognized it now, looking twisted and profane on Harry's face.  
  
All of the fear and anger she'd felt a moment before bled out of her like water from a wrung-out cloth. She thought she'd wait for Harry-Malfoy to simply tell her what to do. Yes. That would be best.  
  
"Why don't you put your wand away?" he said in a conversational tone. She did as he said without hesitation.  
  
"Pick up your satchel," he said, and she did that too. She knew somewhere deep inside that she should be calling for help, should be drawing her wand on him… but that just didn't seem very important right now.  
  
"Come with me," he said, and she followed him down the rest of the stairs, out of Gryffindor Tower. She passed a few other Gryffindor students in the hallway outside and thought distantly of getting their attention, but Harry-Malfoy grinned and shook his head slightly at her. She let the others pass without comment.  
  
"Good girl," he told her, after the other students were safely out of range. "You should thank your friend Weasley, by the way, for letting me know exactly when and where to come and find you. That is, if you ever see him again… which, let's be honest, doesn't seem too likely." He laughed a little and then frowned.  
  
"That was funny," he said. "You should laugh."  
  
So she did, a little giggle and a smile.  
  
He smiled back at her with Harry's mouth. "This is good. I could have some fun with this." He sighed melodramatically. "But I'm afraid we have an appointment. Come on."  
  
Hermione followed obediently. He led her up a flight of stairs, and she realized where they were going: to the seventh floor, and the Room of Requirement.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Harry arrived in the common room at ten minutes before nine, mussed and frantic. He stopped short when he realized that the room was empty. "Hermione?" he called. "Hermione!"   
  
Ginny came down the stairs from the girls' wing just then, her eyebrows lifted. "Harry? Shouldn't you and Hermione have already gone?" She took in his unkempt appearance. "Where is Hermione, anyway?"  
  
Harry, trying to stem his rising panic, said, "She's not with you?"  
  
Ginny only lifted an eyebrow and glanced meaningfully to either side of herself.  
  
"Right," Harry muttered. "Stupid."  
  
"Weren't you supposed to meet her twenty minutes ago?" Ginny said.  
  
"Yeah," Harry said, running his hands through his hair and looking all around the common room as if by doing so he could reveal Hermione, somehow hidden from him all the previous times he'd looked. "But I overslept. I think I was drugged, Ginny. Did you leave chocolates in my room last night?"  
  
"What?" She looked at him as though he'd started speaking gibberish. "Chocolates?"  
  
Harry closed his eyes briefly, looking pained. "There were chocolates in my room last night, with a note saying they were from you. I think they were spiked with something to make me oversleep. Ginny, where the hell is Hermione? Could she have gone with Ron?"  
  
"Ron what?" called Ron, emerging from the staircase behind them. "Someone say my name?"  
  
Harry and Ginny stared at each other.  
  
"Maybe she got tired of waiting and went on her own," Harry said. His face was pale.  
  
Ginny shook her head. "She promised me yesterday she'd wait for you. And Harry, someone drugged you. Something's happened to her."  
  
Ron, who had joined the pair, said, "Drugged? What?"  
  
"No time, Ron." Ginny bit her lip and thought for a moment before coming to a decision. "I'm going to tell Snape," she announced.  
  
" _Snape_?" This was from Ron, although Harry looked just as horrified.  
  
"There's  _no time_ , Ron. I'm going now. I'll explain more later. Harry, you should tell Professor Dumbledore what's going on." She had already turned from them and was moving towards the door.  
  
"I don't  _know_  what's going on, Ginny!" Harry called after her back.  
  
She turned and said over her shoulder, "Then tell him that," and disappeared through the door.  
  
Harry said, "Come on, Ron," and followed after her.  
  
"I wish someone would tell me what this is about," his friend said plaintively.  
  
"Hermione's in trouble," Harry said, as they left the common room. "And I think she needs our help."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape unscrewed a jar of lacewings, setting up the Potions classroom for the first lesson of the day. His teaching duties were the last thing he was interested in at the moment, but if he failed to put out at least a perfunctory effort, it would undoubtedly be noticed.   
  
He thought of Granger and how she'd devised an entirely new charm, one that was simple and brilliant, one that no-one had even thought of attempting before. And then he thought about how he'd have to teach this lot of puling second-year brats how to assemble basic ingredients without blowing themselves up. He ground his teeth. He would rather be re-working his equations, confirming for the dozenth time that by Friday the potion would have had sufficient time to work in Voldemort's semi-incorporeal body.  
  
 _Less than a week_ , he reminded himself.  _And then this will all be over, one way or another._  
  
"Professor Snape?" He looked up with surprise. The Weasley girl stood in the doorway of the Potions classroom, disheveled and out of breath.  
  
He stood and folded his hands behind his back in his usual professorial posture. He could think of no legitimate reason for her to seek his presence in this manner.   
  
"Miss Weasley," he said. "How… unexpected."   
  
She hung back in the doorway with wary caution. "Sir," she said, and hesitated. He was on the verge of summarily dismissing her for wasting his time when she drew in a deep breath, looked him directly in the eye, and said, "It's Hermione, sir. She's missing."  
  
 _No._  
  
His world contracted to a pinpoint, and he heard nothing but a loud rushing in his ears. He forced himself to breathe. "Explain," he said. The expression on his face was enough to make the Weasley girl take a step back.  
  
"Harry was to meet her this morning to take her to class. Someone drugged him to make him oversleep, and now... Hermione is gone."   
  
"Gone," he repeated. "And you are telling  _me_  this."  
  
She flinched. "Sir," she said, her voice faltering, "I… I saw you leave the Ball. With her. I thought…"  
  
"Enough," he said. Alarm bells sounded inside his head; if this girl had noticed something amiss, who else had? They knew. There was no other explanation.   
  
Time had finally run out.   
  
"Come with me," he told the girl. His face felt cold and bloodless. Like a dead man's.  
  
"Professor…?" she began, but he had already pushed past her through the door, striding down the hallway with his robes swirling behind him. He heard the girl's footsteps, running to keep up. He ducked into his private quarters; before she had a chance to follow him in, he emerged again with a scroll in his hand. He shoved it at her.   
  
"Give this to Dumbledore," he said. "Tell him to read it. Tell him that the time is  _now_."   
  
Ginny opened her mouth, undoubtedly ready to ask a question, but he snarled at her, " _Run_ ," and she turned and did just that.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Hermione watched in placid quiet as Draco paced the requisite three times in front of the door to the Room of Requirement. When the door swung open, he gestured and said, "After you," in a voice that could have caught flies.   
  
She saw the rooftop and knew on a theoretical level that she should be surprised and afraid, but she simply could not bring herself to care. She didn't bother taking in any of the details of her surroundings or looking for escape routes. The only important thing in the world seemed to be following Draco's instructions. She watched him and waited.  
  
"I like you this way," he said. "It's nice."   
  
He snapped his fingers and a chair appeared in front of him. "We're a bit early," he told her. "Might as well sit down while we wait." He lowered himself into the chair and then with a wide grin, he patted his lap expectantly.  
  
For the first time since he'd cursed her, Hermione balked at his command.  _No_ , she thought,  _I don't want to do this_. She fought the urge, screwing her eyes tightly closed, fighting her own body.  
  
"Now," he said. His voice had lost all its sarcasm and smarm.  
  
 _I don't want to. I don't want to. Please._  She moaned through clenched teeth. Resisting him was like holding her breath underwater; she needed to go to him, needed it like oxygen. Her chest burned with an ache that worsened with every passing second.  
  
He spoke again, cold and commanding: "Hermione Granger, you will come to me immediately."  
  
With a helpless cry, she gave in. She opened her eyes and moved towards him, unable even to protest.   
  
And then she settled herself onto his knee, and his arm went around her. He smiled; with his other hand, he began stroking and petting her hair. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he murmured.   
  
The Polyjuice was wearing off; he looked more blond and angular with each passing moment.   
  
"If we had more time," he said, "I could really have some fun with you." He cupped her left breast with one hand and slipped the other hand between her thighs. "But we'll make use of what time we have, won't we?"  
  
She said nothing, and he squeezed her breast firmly. "Won't we?" he repeated.  
  
"Yes, Draco, we will," she said, and his grin widened like the maw of a shark.   
  
His hand crept further up her thigh, pushing away the fabric of her robes and the skirt she had on underneath. He pulled her close, pressing her against his chest; she could feel the clammy dampness of his skin and could smell his sweat. He brought his lips close to her ear and whispered, "I could make you use your mouth on me. I could make you beg for it."  
  
She shifted her hips to move away from his searching fingers, but he clicked his tongue into her ear chidingly. "That's not what I told you to do, is it, Granger?" She shifted back towards him, and he laughed.   
  
"God, this is good," he told her. "I'm going to ask the Dark Lord to let me have you as my plaything after he's done with you. My own little Gryffindor pet. Do you like that idea?" he asked her. "Say yes."  
  
"Yes," she said. She wanted badly to get off his lap, but couldn't make her body respond. His hands stroked and slithered all over her.  _Please_ , she thought. _Please make this stop._  
  
"Having fun, are we?" Draco's head shot up and cold fear spiked into Hermione's belly. She knew that voice. It was Bellatrix Lestrange; her arrival had been swift and silent, and she stood before them with a smirk on her face, her hair wild and tousled from the wind. She reached out to Hermione's chin with a long, crooked finger and turned it so that Hermione looked directly into her eyes.  
  
"You've been  _busy_  since we last met," she breathed, and then she cackled, a noise that made Hermione's mind nearly shut down with terror. "Busy, busy, busy!"  
  
Then she glanced at Draco and said in a voice stripped of all humor or teasing, "You know that our Lord prefers his guests to be in their own minds. Hold her."  
  
Draco locked his arms through Hermione's from behind, pressing her tightly against his chest.   
  
"Now?" Hermione heard him ask Bellatrix, and with a grin wide enough to swallow up her entire face, she said, "Now!"  
  
" _Finite Incantatem_!"   
  
Hermione felt as though she had rather abruptly woken from a hazy dream. Her mind, her thoughts, her feelings, were once again her own. She rose up against Draco's grip, fighting and struggling, but he was too strong and had her arms completely pinned.   
  
"Let me go, damn you!" she cried; she tried thrashing from side to side and kicking his shins, but she couldn't get leverage, couldn't get free. She heard him laughing at her, and then she heard Bellatrix too, both of them laughing in amusement and watching her struggle.   
  
Bellatrix lifted her wand and pointed it directly at Hermione. "No!" Hermione screamed, "don't!"   
  
In a singsong, playful tone, the Death Eater said, " _Stupefy!_ " and then everything went black.


	27. Chapter 27

Severus Snape was running as fast as he could. Not for the first time, he cursed the anti-Apparition wards that Dumbledore had cast on Hogwarts. Seven stories from the dungeons to the Room of Requirement. Seven stories, and she'd been gone for at least half an hour.  
  
He took the steps three at a time, shoving past an open-mouthed group of Ravenclaws, knowing that it was too far, knowing that he could not run fast enough. Knowing that she was already gone.  
  
And knowing that today would end in death. Whose, he did not yet know.  
  
When he got to the seventh floor, he crossed in front of the door three times, willing it to be the rooftop, his wand out and ready to start blasting at the door if it stayed closed.  
  
But it swung open easily, revealing the empty rooftop beyond, with nothing but breeze blowing over the stone abutments. She was gone. In the hands of the Voldemort and his Death Eaters.   
  
 _She may already be dead._  He felt a great black crevasse threatening to open inside himself, but he held it back with the force of logic, with rationality. Voldemort wouldn't kill her until he'd extracted from her mind everything that she knew about Snape. The girl was reasonably skilled at Occlumency; she might be able to hold off even the Dark Lord for a while.   
  
A short while.  
  
He had just begun considering how best to approach Malfoy Manor when the Dark Mark on his forearm came to life, writhing and twisting with an all-too-familiar pain. He laughed, a bitter, hysterical sound.  
  
"Of course," he said out loud to the abandoned rooftop. "Of course."  
  
 _Enough_ , he told himself.  _Pull yourself together_. He straightened his posture, assumed a cold, severe expression, and used every minute of his years of training and practice to push his fear and panic out of his mind.   
  
"If you want her," he breathed to the air, "you will come through me to do so."  
  
He turned his back on the rooftop room and left it to fly down the stairs as quickly as he'd come. Soon he left Hogwarts entirely, on his way to Apparate to what would likely be his last-ever meeting with Voldemort.  
  
For better or for worse.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Ginny Weasley arrived at the Headmaster's tower flushed and out of breath, calling out, "Professor Dumbledore! Professor Dumbledore, I need to talk to you!" But just as she approached the stone gargoyle guarding the stairs, the Headmaster himself appeared from the stairwell, trailing Ron and Harry behind him.  
  
"Miss Weasley," he said, his usual genial tone tempered with concern. "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley have informed me that Miss Granger is missing."  
  
She nodded and thrust Snape's scroll at him. "This is from Professor Snape, sir. He says you should read it." Dumbledore reached out to take the scroll from the wide-eyed girl. She said, "He said the time is now."  
  
Dumbledore focused his eyes on her. "The time is now?" he repeated.  
  
"That's what Professor Snape said, sir."  
  
Dumbledore unrolled the scroll and began to read. "Where is Professor Snape?" he asked, as he scanned the first few lines.  
  
"I don't know, sir," Ginny said. "He looked… upset."  
  
Dumbledore looked up from the scroll with an arched eyebrow. "Interesting," he said. "And worrisome." And then, as he read on, his expression changed rapidly to one of surprise and then alarm.   
  
Ginny thought she had never seen anything as frightening.  
  
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, come with me," the headmaster said. "Miss Weasley, I would like you to go to Gryffindor Tower as quickly as you can. Use the Floo network to inform your parents that I am calling an emergency assembly of the Order. They will know what to do."  
  
"Yes, sir," she said, and she turned and broke into a run. Professor Dumbledore's back was already receding up the staircase to his tower office.  
  
"Do you think Hermione's going to be OK?" Ron whispered to Harry as they followed behind.  
  
Harry gave him a side-long look and said, "She has to be, Ron. That's all there is to it."  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape Apparated to just outside the gates of Malfoy Manor. He had considered and dismissed the idea of attempting a surreptitious entry. There were too many wards, too many Death Eaters, and too much chance of being caught. He only needed a few seconds in front of Lord Voldemort to reverse the incantation; a direct approach was most likely to succeed.  
  
 _If success is even possible_ , he thought. He'd re-worked the equations so many times that he had them memorized. Friday was the absolute earliest that he could expect the potion to work sufficiently. He had no idea what activating it five days early would do. Possibly nothing at all.  
  
But he had to try. He'd got Granger into this, and he was going to get her out.   
  
 _If she's still alive._  
  
His boots crunched on the gravel of the path as he strode toward the doors. His face bore a smirk of bored superiority, same as always. Nothing amiss. Nothing out of the ordinary.   
  
A house elf opened the door as he approached; he noted that the creature was behaving towards him with its usual obsequious deference. Good. "Master Snape," it said, and gestured him inside. Snape gave it a curt nod and swept through the doors.  
  
"Severus," came an unctuous voice from somewhere to his right. Lucius Malfoy emerged from a shadowy alcove, flanked by two Death Eaters Snape only vaguely recognized; one was short with close-cropped dark hair, and the other had a wide face like the back of a shovel. Snape's fingers curled around his wand, hidden inside the sleeve of his robes.   
  
"We didn't think you'd make an appearance under… the circumstances." Lucius' voice dripped with amused scorn. "We thought you'd be on the run by now."  
  
Snape allowed his lip to curl in disdain. "On the run? What are you babbling about, Lucius? Has losing the Dark Lord's favor addled your mind?"  
  
The blond man's mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "You're hardly one to talk about  _losing favor_ , Severus. But you can ask the Dark Lord about that yourself." His laugh was echoed by the other two men.   
  
"Yes, I think I will," Snape said, and he moved toward the door leading to the dungeons. But Malfoy and the other two Death Eaters formed a line, shoulder to shoulder, to stop him.  
  
"Is that what you  _think_?" Lucius said, with the confidence of a man who knows he is backed by someone more powerful. "I think you  _think_  too much. And I  _think_ I'll have your wand now." He held out his hand, grinning widely.  
  
"The fuck you will," Snape said, and he took a step back.  _So this is how it's going to be._  
  
Lucius wouldn't have demanded his wand except on Voldemort's express orders. As Snape had feared, Voldemort had lost trust in him. His hopes of easily gaining access to the throne room were dashed.  
  
Still. He'd come prepared for a fight.  
  
Snape drew his wand so quickly that the Death Eaters appeared to be moving in slow motion by comparison. He fired " _Sectumsempra_ " at each of them in rapid-fire turn. The first two men screamed simultaneously and dropped their wands; great oval-shaped gashes opened on their exposed arms, and similarly-shaped ovals of blood appeared a moment later on their robes. Lucius threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding being cursed himself. From the floor, he aimed his wand directly at Snape.  
  
" _Expelliarmus!_ " Snape cried, and Malfoy's wand flew out of his hand, leaving only a comically surprised expression on the man's face. Snape saw movement out of the corner of his eye—one of the Death Eaters he'd already incapacitated was crawling towards his wand. He held out his hand and cried, " _Accio_  wands!" With a satisfying thud, all three loose wands shot into his open palm. He allowed himself a smirk and tucked them into a pocket of his robes.   
  
Lucius scuttled away from Snape like a crab, his eyes darting from side to side, afraid to turn his back on the other man.   
  
"Running away, Lucius? Is that what they teach little Malfoys when they're growing up?" Snape raised his wand, preparing to cast Sectumsempra again. Malfoy's eyes flickered above and behind Snape. Snape was experienced enough in battle to know not to look, to stay focused on what was ahead of him. And so he was taken completely by surprise when a Stupefy curse struck him a glancing blow from behind. He stumbled and flailed his limbs in an effort to keep upright.   
  
Lucius burst into an oily chuckle. "His  _wand_?" he called, to the spot above and behind Snape where his eyes had shifted a moment before. Before Snape could whirl to defend himself, an Expelliarmus spell snatched his wand from his grasp. He turned then to see a dozen masked Death Eaters arrayed on the balcony of the mezzanine level above. All with their wands out. All pointed at him.  
  
 _I have miscalculated_ , he thought.  _I have miscalculated badly_. He dove for his wand, and he nearly made it, his fingers outstretched to just short of where it lay on the tiled floor, but it didn't matter, because curses rained down on him from all directions then—stinging hexes, and a hex that felt like white-hot drops of fire raining onto his skin, and finally Petrificus Totalus. His legs obediently locked together and his muscles stiffened.  
  
 _I have failed. She is here, and she is going to die, because I have failed._  
  
Lucius Malfoy knelt next to his incapacitated body. He reached inside Snape's outer robes and slipped his own wand out of the pocket. He bared his teeth in an rictus of a grin and brushed a hank of greasy blond hair out of his face. "You have no idea how much I've wanted this," he murmured, "you Mudblood-fucking _traitor._ "  
  
He touched his wand to Snape's chest and breathed, " _Crucio_." 


	28. Chapter 28

Hermione felt a tear slide down her cheek and collect at the edge of her chin for a moment before spattering onto the hard stone floor. Legilimency had never hurt when Snape had done it to her, not even when he was forcing his way in. But this hurt. She'd long since given up trying to stop the tears from welling out of her eyes.  
  
She stood in Voldemort's throne room, her arms bound tightly behind her from wrists to elbows. When she'd woken up, Bellatrix had been there to cast a silencing spell on her; it encircled her throat like a tight, greasy cord. Now Bellatrix was curled up on a chair next to Voldemort's empty throne, Nagini's head in her lap, petting the snake and watching the proceedings with unreserved delight. A score of other Death Eaters lined the perimeter of the room in full robes and masks.  
  
Voldemort himself held Hermione's chin tightly in one of his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes. She knew that he was going to kill her as soon as he'd got what he wanted, and she was starting to think that she should simply give in and get it over with. She hurt so very much.  
  
 _But I promised Snape_ , she thought dimly. She'd been Occluding to the best of her ability for nearly an hour. Voldemort had immediately seen through the false images she'd tried to project, but she'd had some success snowing him out of her real memories. She had the sense that he was getting loose thoughts and images from around the edges, but it couldn't be much. It couldn't be enough. Or she'd be dead.  
  
His grip tightened on her chin. "Show me," he snarled, and he plunged into her mind. It felt like being stabbed between the eyes with a molten poker. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes. She could feel him searching her mind, clawing and savaging her defenses again and again.   
  
 _White. Cold. Nothing. White. Cold. Nothing._  
  
Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth where she'd bitten her lip.   
  
After several minutes of torturous but useless searching, Voldemort withdrew, glaring at her with yellow reptilian eyes. "When I kill you," he said, "it will be sslow. You may look forward to that." And then he thrust into her mind again.  
  
Hermione would have given anything just to be able to scream.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape was half-dragged, half-shoved into the throne room by two masked Death Eaters, his hands bound behind him. He stumbled, but he managed to keep his balance and remained standing.  
  
 _I am finished kneeling before you._  
  
He opened his mouth to cast the incantation before he was even finished righting himself, but only got as far as the first syllable before Voldemort casually and wordlessly flicked his wand towards him. Snape felt his throat constrict. He tried to speak again, but the spell merely squeezed his throat further, preventing any sound from escaping.  
  
Voldemort turned back to his prey, and then Snape saw her, chin held in the Dark Lord's talon-like hand, bloodied and trembling.  
  
Alive.  
  
"Severuss," Voldemort hissed, "so glad to see you have arrived. I apologize for my lack of courtesy, but we both know your skill at wandless magic, do we not?"  
  
Voldemort released Hermione's chin and pushed her head with the flat of his hand, forcing her to her knees on the floor. She struck the stones hard, and her head fell forward onto her chest. With effort she lifted it and looked to where Snape was bound. Her eyes were watery and bloodshot, and they went round and wide when she met his own.   
  
Voldemort glided to where Snape stood, flanked by Death Eaters. "You may leave," he told the two men, and they nodded and made a quick retreat.  
  
Snape watched, still and silent, as Voldemort paced in front of him. He could feel the tendrils of Legilimency probing into his mind; it was a subtle touch, orders of magnitude lighter and gentler than what had just been done to Hermione. Likely Voldemort thought that this would go undetected by Snape; but it was no matter either way. Even with his hands bound, even weakened from Cruciatus, Snape maintained control over his mind. His skill at Occlumency was more than a match for Voldemort.   
  
 _For as much good as it will do me_ , he thought, deep in the protected part of his mind.  
  
"This little Mudblood sslut appears to know Occlumency," Voldemort said at last. "Could you explain, Severuss, how she might have learned this?"  
  
He paused as though waiting for an answer from the silenced man. After a few seconds passed, he threw his head back and laughed loudly, turning to face the assembled Death Eaters to indicate that they were permitted to show amusement as well. "Of course. I'll answer for you. She learned it from a professor, obviously. Someone who taught her well."  
  
He reached out a hand to Snape's face and stroked it, in a caricature of a loving caress. "But not quite well enough, I am afraid. I've seen things in her mind, Severuss. Thingsss that make me think you haven't been  _truthful_  with me."  
  
Voldemort's sharp yellowed talon scraped down Snape's cheek, opening a shallow wound. Snape betrayed no reaction, remaining perfectly still.  
  
"After all of the opportunities I have given you, you choose to fuck this  _Mudblood_." Voldemort watched Snape's face avidly as he said this; Snape did not even twitch.   
  
"Oh yes, I saw that in her weak little Mudblood mind. I saw other things too. Did you know that this pathetic Mudblood slut is actually in love with you?"  
  
Snape heard a wordless cry from Hermione, bound and silenced several feet away. He fought the urge to look at her, keeping his head still and his eyes trained on the wall beyond Voldemort's face.  
  
Voldemort laughed again. "Perhaps not. But," he went on, his voice turning cold and severe, "she is still hiding something. Some… plan. A scheme. Something she has schemed with  _you_ , Sseverus. Something that she intends to  _do_. I tire of searching through her filthy Mudblood mind. And so I have come up with a simpler, more  _elegant_  solution."  
  
Cold, sick fear struck Snape's gut.  _No. Not yet. I'm not ready._  
  
"The girl has no more use to me," Voldemort said, and then with a lipless smirk he said, " _You_  will execute this…  _solution_ , Sseveruss."  
  
A cry of outrage came from one of the Death Eaters arrayed behind Voldemort. He stepped forward, lowering his mask; Snape saw that it was Draco Malfoy, trembling and pale. "You said she would be mine!" he cried.  
  
Even through his own horror and fear, Snape almost managed to feel sorry for the boy. Voldemort's face darkened, and with his wand held high in the air he whirled around to shout " _Stupefy_!" at Draco. Draco was driven backward into the stone dungeon wall; his head made a loud wet cracking sound, and he slumped to the floor unconscious. This prompted a cascade of giggling from Bellatrix, still petting Nagini from her vantage point near the throne.  
  
"Do not interrupt me," Voldemort said to the boy's crumpled body, and then he turned back to Snape.  
  
"Now… where were we?" he asked the room at large. "Oh, yes."   
  
He leveled his wand directly at Snape and said, " _Imperio!_ "  
  
Snape summoned all of his mental resources to fight the curse off, but even a master Occlumens at the height of his power would have trouble fending off an Imperius curse from Lord Voldemort, and Snape was weakened already, his defenses low. Voldemort held his wand on Snape, circling slowly, waiting for the curse to take hold.  
  
"I am so very disappointed in you, Sseverus," he said. "I trusted you more than any. And all for a Mudblood. A  _Mudblood, Severus!_ " Snape trembled visibly with effort.  
  
Voldemort said, "I tire of this," and pointed his wand at Snape a second time: " _Imperio!_ "   
  
The second casting overwhelmed Snape; his inner self washed away in the flood of the Imperius curse, leaving him no longer willing or able to resist Voldemort's commands. The Dark Lord chuckled, a cold-blooded sound no human throat could make. With a slight twitch of his fingers, he released the bonds holding Snape's wrists and lifted the silencing charm.  
  
"His wand, please," Voldemort said to the air, and a Death Eater from the ranks behind them stepped forward, presenting Snape's wand to Voldemort. The Dark Lord took it, balancing it in his hand for a moment, pointing it at Snape as though he were going to curse him again. Finally, he turned it end-first so that the tip pointed at himself, and he handed it to Snape. Snape fought to keep his hands at his sides, fought to resist taking it. But his arm moved of its own volition; he could not stop himself from reaching for his wand and taking its familiar weight into his hand.   
  
"Face her," Voldemort hissed. Snape obeyed, turning and looking directly at Hermione for the first time since arriving in the throne room. She knelt on the floor with her hands bound. Her jaw trembled, but she lifted it in defiance, meeting Snape's eyes.  
  
 _Meeting her death with honor_ , Snape thought in the deep part of his mind that still belonged to him.  _Meeting her killer with honor._  
  
"Raise your wand."   
  
He lifted his wand into an attack posture, pointing it directly at Hermione. She never looked away from his eyes.  
  
With inhuman effort, he managed to rasp out, "No!" but nothing he did was enough to force his fingers open, to drop the wand.  
  
Voldemort circled closer, moving just behind Snape's left shoulder. The stench of his rot filled Snape's nose. He leaned close and said, "Do you love her as well, Severuss? That would make this so much more… tragic." He looked smugly at the assembled Death Eaters, who rewarded this  _bon mot_  with echoes of laughter.  
  
Hermione stared into Snape's eyes with an intensity he had never seen from her in all the time they'd spent together. She blinked, furrowed her brow slightly, blinked again. It looked as though she were trying to send him a message. But if she were, he thought, it was futile. He had no control over his own body; there was nothing he could do. He had failed, utterly and completely.  
  
A series of memories flashed through his mind: Hermione's wide-eyed shock when he'd taken off his frock-coat for her the first time; the way she'd shrieked in astonishment when he detonated the flask; her arms supporting him as he limped back to the castle. And her mischievous grin, and her sobs of pleasure, and her body wrapped around his own.  
  
All about to end, forever. At his hand.  
  
Her stare bored into him with near-physical force. The expression on her face clearly telegraphed that she was trying to send him a message, desperately trying, willing him to understand. She caught his gaze, glanced deliberately down at her chin, then looked back up at him.  _At her chin_ , he thought.  _Or… her throat._  
  
Sudden realization crashed through his wall of anguish. He understood at last; if only his idiocy hadn't made him too late.  
  
He deliberately permitted a single thought to escape from behind the impenetrable mist of Occlumency. One single thought:  _I can't bear it if she screams. If she screams, it will break me._  
  
He heard Voldemort giggle next to him and then announce to the room, "I find this unsatisfactory! I prefer my victims more… lively!" The ranks of Death Eaters murmured in approval, and Bellatrix even clapped her hands together and laughed at her Lord's cleverness.   
  
With a gesture, Voldemort released Hermione from the silencing spell. She sucked in a great breath, the constriction gone at last from her throat.  
  
"Scream, Mudblood, for your life," Voldemort taunted her.  
  
" _Finite Incantatem_ , you son of a  _bitch!_ " she gasped in return.   
  
And then everything seemed to happen all at once. Voldemort's skin began glowing, first into a healthy human-colored pink, and then beyond that into rippling patterns of fiery orange and red. His arteries and veins showed in sharp relief, glowing brightly for a moment before the blood inside ignited. He raised his hands in horror and had time only to shriek, " _What is this?_ " before his whole body began to burn, flames licking at his skin and consuming him from the inside out.   
  
Snape heard himself speak the words " _Avada Kevadra!_ " a split second before feeling the Imperius curse lift from him. He jerked his wand away from Hermione, sending the spell flying harmlessly past her head to dissipate into a flash of green light somewhere near the ceiling.   
  
He saw her kneeling, unscathed by the curse, and he gasped out a ragged sob of relief.   
  
Voldemort was a putrescent column of greenish-red flame; even while he burned, he aimed his wand at Snape, but before he could cast a spell, his wand ignited too. The flame-column of Voldemort's body took a few faltering steps, then toppled, leaving scorch marks on the surrounding flagstones. A foul green mist rose from it, and then Nagini reared up from her coiled position to inhale the mist cloud, absorbing it into her body. The snake's eyes glowed green and her mouth opened in a loud hiss, fangs dripping venom. She was poised directly over Hermione—poised to strike.  
  
"No!" Snape shouted; he ran a few feet toward the girl before diving to block her body with his own. He drew his wand in mid-air and cried " _Avada Kevadra!_ " Green light pulsed through the great snake's body; it recoiled, writhing and hissing, but did not fall. Snape felt drops of acid-like venom spatter onto his chest. He screamed, "Die, goddamn you!" and from his position on the floor protecting Hermione, he thrust his wand toward Nagini and cried out, " _Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!_ ", sending curse after curse at the monstrous creature until at last, writhing with an awful keening screech, it collapsed motionless. Snape heard hissing and thought the snake still moved, but then realized that the sound was from acid eating into the flagstones surrounding Nagini's fallen body.  
  
Bellatrix Lestrange and the other Death Eaters had watched all of this in stunned silence, but when Nagini fell, Bellatrix regained her senses. She drew her wand on Snape, still lying atop Hermione. He was ready for Lestrange's attack; with a cry of " _Confringo!_ " he cast a ball of light toward Bellatrix. She deflected it with a shield charm, causing it to explode with a shower of sparks and stone shards next to a knot of Death Eaters, two of whom crumpled limply to the floor.  
  
Lestrange screeched in pure rage and lifted her wand, shrieking, "You can't defeat all of us, traitor!" Snape was on the verge of casting another blasting spell when he heard " _Stupefy_!" from three different places at once. Lestrange's body jerked as though buffeted by an invisible gale, and then she too collapsed in a heap.  
  
"Perhaps not, but I believe  _we_  can," said a familiar voice.  _I need to apologize for doubting you, Albus_ , Snape thought to himself. He had never been quite so glad to hear the Headmaster's voice.  
  
Chaos broke out in the dungeon then, as curses flew back and forth, and voices shouted, and several Death Eaters simply surrendered. He heard Longbottom's voice shouting, "Mind the snake, it's not dead!"  
  
Snape turned to Hermione, half-pinned beneath him still, and said, "I apologize for taking so long to understand."   
  
She smiled—faintly, weakly, but a smile—and said, "I'm glad it didn't take you longer."


	29. Chapter 29

Unnoticed just yet due to the commotion in the dungeon, Snape unbound Hermione's wrists and helped her to her feet. He held on to her hand for just a moment too long before releasing it. They were surrounded by Order members rounding up and disarming Death Eaters.  
  
Hermione murmured to herself, "I've survived this day. I won't be a coward now." Snape's eyebrows went up in question, but before he could ask her to explain, she was in his arms, pressing her body close against his, resting her head in the curve of his neck. He went tense and rigid but for a moment, and then he relaxed, allowing the embrace, allowing her to cling to him. Holding her close and tight.  
  
Just then Hermione heard two familiar voices shouting "Hermione! Hermione, are you all right?" She turned her head to see Ron and Harry running towards her.  
  
"They made us wait outside to guard the wards," Ron said. Harry nodded, adding, "Until Dumbledore gave the signal. We would have been here sooner otherwise." He looked around the ruined dungeon for the first time, and his mouth dropped open.   
  
"Hermione… what happened? And…" He stopped mid-sentence, having also now noticed that she was being held in her Potions professor's arms. If his eyebrows had shot any higher, they'd have left his forehead.  
  
"I think we killed Voldemort, Harry," she said. "And Professor Snape saved my life." She let go of him at last, letting her hands trail across the fabric of his robes as she turned away.  
  
Snape regarded the two boys with an evaluating gaze. "Voldemort isn't dead," he said at last. "You know he can't be killed as easily as that. But his body has been destroyed."  
  
Ron had completely lost the power of speech, but Harry managed, "Like he was when I… when he…"   
  
"Precisely, Mr. Potter."  
  
Harry shook his head as though to clear something from his eyes. "I… I thought this was just about Malfoy."  
  
"Malfoy," Hermione said with a start, remembering what had happened to him. "Is he all right?"  
  
Neville came up just then, looking remarkably unruffled under the circumstances. "We just found him," he said. "Professor Dumbledore says that St. Mungo's has a team of healers on the way. But w-why…?" He frowned, not quite able to ask her the rest of the question. But Hermione knew what he intended.  
  
"He might be a Death Eater, Neville, but I think he was made to do some pretty awful things. And he doesn't deserve to die in this dungeon."  
  
Neville nodded, hesitated for a second, and then simply said, "I'm glad you're all right." Ron found his voice then and asked Hermione what had happened that morning, and Dumbledore and McGonagall were approaching, and everyone seemed to want to ask her things all at once. Hermione felt rather as though she were the main course in the lions' cage at the zoo.  
  
Above the clamor, Snape's baritone rang out: "Miss Granger requires rest. I shall escort her back to Hogwarts at this time."  
  
Ron and Harry both looked as though they wanted to protest, but Dumbledore, seeing Hermione's face, agreed. "I believe that is an excellent idea, if Miss Granger does not object."  
  
Hermione, flooded with gratitude, managed a weak smile and said, "Miss Granger does not."  
  
With a sweep of robes, Snape turned and led the way to the outer corridor. Hermione followed, leaving behind Voldemort's ruined throne room and the remains of his twisted, smoldering body, and her friends, still staring at her in wonderment.  
  
The two made their way through the labyrinthine halls and staircases of Malfoy Manor until at last they emerged into the front courtyard. The late-afternoon sun was just taking on tinges of red and orange streaks as it began its descent into evening, and the breeze was scented with wildflowers. Hermione's breath caught in her throat, and she faltered. Snape stopped in concern. "Miss Granger?"  
  
She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the clean spring air. "I didn't think I'd see the sun again," she said, opening her eyes to look at him.  
  
He inclined his head slightly and offered her his arm. "Nor I, Miss Granger."  
  
She lifted her eyes to his, raised an eyebrow just a fraction of an inch. He understood at once, the faintest hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.  
  
"…Hermione," he said, and she returned his smile with her own, just as slight but unmistakable.  
  
She curled her arm through his as they set off along a neatly-edged gravel path through the manicured grounds.  
  
"We must walk some distance before we are clear of the anti-Apparition wards," he said to her. "Are you capable?"  
  
She laughed a little and said, "What if I said I wasn't?"  
  
"Then I would carry you," he said. He did not look at her.  
  
"I can manage," she whispered. "For now."  
  
"As you wish."   
  
Hermione knew there was so much more to say to him, and so many questions to ask, but she was content to merely walk with him in silence, feeling the horror of the day slip away more with each step she took from Malfoy Manor.  
  
—~—~—  
  
Snape Apparated himself and Hermione to just outside the gates of Hogwarts. She let go of him after they arrived, and he didn't like admitting to himself how much he'd enjoyed the feel of her body pressed against him as they walked.   
  
"Dumbledore and the Order will likely want to talk to you later this evening," he said into the quiet. Her face twitched; he'd clearly startled her out of some reverie.  
  
"Tonight?" she said, and bit her lip. "I was hoping to wait until tomorrow."  
  
Snape half-shrugged. "I do not know," he said, "but I suspect they will not want to wait."  
  
"Will you be there?" she asked, looking directly into his eyes.  
  
He had the urge to ask her whether she wanted him to be there but dismissed the impulse as foolish and sophomoric. "Yes," he said instead, "I will."  
  
They had reached the great doors of Hogwarts. Inside, she would go up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, and he would descend into the dungeons, and they would not see each other again alone until… he was not sure when. He found himself reluctant to leave her, reluctant to let her go.  
  
Hermione glanced at the doors and then turned back to Snape with a faint hint of color in her cheeks. He lifted an eyebrow; after today, what could possibly make this girl feel embarrassed or self-conscious?   
  
"I'm sorry that you had to find out the way you did," she said. She met his eyes without faltering.  
  
He didn't need to ask what she was talking about. He could still hear Voldemort's sibilant hiss in his mind.  
  
Hermione waited. Waited for him to say something. To accept her apology, perhaps, or to tell her that her feelings were unrequited and inappropriate—that he was a Hogwarts instructor, after all, and she was a student for still another month. To tell her one of the dozens of reasons that this could never work.  
  
 _The moments that define us._  
  
"My answer was yes," he said, looking into her eyes and feeling as though he'd just plunged into dark, cold water.  
  
She didn't need to ask him, either. He saw it in her face, saw it light like the sunrise.  _I've made her look that way_ , he thought.  _That's for me._  
  
He could tell she was about to say something, but before she could, he kissed her—just for a moment—hard on the lips, knowing this time that it was a pleasure he would have the chance to savor again. And then he released her and said, "Go. Eat. Get rest. There is a long night ahead."  
  
A secretive smile touched the corner of her lips. "I'll see you tonight then, Severus," she said.  
  
He watched her enter the doors of Hogwarts in her torn and blood-stained robes, her hair wild and marked with acid burns, and he thought, she is lovely.  
  
And then,  _she is mine._  
  
—~—~—  
—~ _Fin._ ~—  
—~—~—

_October 2010-November 2011_


End file.
